The last time I saw my mother - just a few weeks ago - I asked her if she had any advice for me on raising my baby girl. "Just love her" was what she offered. Like many other things with her, it was heartfelt and lovely, but not especially practical.
"Practical" was never a key consideration for my mother. Case in point: she continued seeing a dentist in Massachusetts for 9 years after moving to Virgina. Though, I'm pretty sure this was a thinly veiled excuse to spend more time visiting me.
When guiding us - her own daughters, Sarah and me - through our education, being able to paint and play the piano were at least as important as picking a "career" that would put a roof over our head. And yet she worked like crazy to make sure we were taken care of, while still finding time between work and raising 2 girls for drawing classes, singing lessons, an MBA, and a dinner theater troupe.
Her big passion was hunting bargains, tirelessly. No yard sale too small or schedule too tight not to take "just a few minutes" to investigate. She did not want to miss out on anything, and loved more than anything to find misplaced and undervalued treasures. We played hooky from work to buy my wedding dress at a sparsely advertised $99 dress sale. Honestly, I'm not sure which made her eyes well up more - her daughter in the perfect ivory dress, or the amazing deal we scored.
After I had moved out of the house, she reminded me her love with a bevy of care packages and magazine clippings. Once she even sent me a clipping explaining why she sent me so many clippings. There was always something in the mail from mom. My college roommates would be jealous when a box would arrive filled with a variety of impractical items - bendy frogs, wind-up toys, dried fruit, chocolate, sparkly socks. When my son, Zachary was born we'd get tiny Hawaiian shirts and like-new firetrucks, scored from Goodwill (usually), with pride.
My baby daughter Alisha will miss out not only on these mystery packages, but on getting to know her Grandma Marjorie. I will, of course, heed her advice to just love her, as she has done for me.
The above was written for her funeral, posted here for those of you who had asked. Yesterday I was back at work after a week scurrying around the east coast, attempting to get my head around this, trying (unsuccessfully) to bury my head under my desk for most of the day. I wanted to call her on my drive home, to see how she was doing. Wondering what I forgot to ask her. Wanting to know when it will hit me that this is permanent.
3 comments:
Rachel,
Losing someone you love is never easy, a friend, a child, a spouse, a parent. Losing a mother is particularly hard no matter when or what the circumstances. Mothers are always there- they listen to our complaints, they guide us gently and not so gently by giving wanted and unwanted advice. Our questions are never fully answered because we know that we can always ask. Your mother was a constant. She will always be a part of you. She was there for you but you also were there for her.
My mother died when Josh was two and I was 27. It took years before I didn't automatically go to the phone to pick it up thinking I'll call Mom and ask her that or want to share something Jenn or Josh had done. Over time missing her became less painful and memories helped to fill some of the void.
One thing for sure though is that a part of your Mother lives in you and in your children. You will tell your children stories about their Grandma and share the photos, pass down recipes and tidbits of your mothers advice and knowledge.
Remember that although it is not the same I am here for you- I love you as if you were born into our family.
Estee
Rachel,
It took me 1 year to accept that my mom was gone. The first anniversary of her death was, in a lot of ways, harder than her actually dying. Even though it's been 3 years now, I do still stop and think of calling her or buying something for her. I hate that my daughter won't know her Nana.
We just have to do the best we can with stories, passing them on.
~Robyn
Beautifully written, Rachel. This brought tears to my eyes. I think your mother would be so proud of the woman you've become.
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