Mother, mother-am I lonely? Heavens, no.
The shock of losing my mother never eases up. I like to say I lost because it feels like I could just find her and it is just a matter of time, hard work and luck I could find her again. She is dead and I don’t believe in zombies so it isn’t like I think she will come back to life but more a feeling that I could just bump into her, pick up where we left off. Often times I am really busy and preoccupied with my own bullshit to remember that I had a mother, miss my mother, loved my mother, need my mother and would love to tell her, well, everything. I want to tell her how amazing my children smell and did I smell so delicious and I understand now your regular morning comment on my rosy cheeks and soft skin. I want to ask you why you never talked to me about my menstrual cycle before it happened or talked to me about boobs and pubic hair. Why on earth did you make me eat spinach souffle when it was so disgusting. Why didn’t you question my extreme thinness in high school and never talk to me about sex?
You see, I just don’t have a point of reference for my own children as I am lacking those things from my memory. When you died you took everything with you. All my babyhood antics, my preteen exploits, my dangerous teenage years and finally my grown up life just begun when you died when I was 27. Dying right before my Saturn Return. Dying before I could think about having children, before I went back to school and got a grown-up like job. Without your memories I feel like nothing happened before you died. Life just started over and I didn’t get to keep anything from before.
It is truly bizarre to mother your own children without a mother of your own. So many times I feel so frustrated and tired of being the adult and since you are gone I am no longer anyone’s baby who would hug and kiss me and smooth my hair and tell me it will all be fine. I am just the grown up mother all the time. Or the grown up wife. Or the grown up nurse. Or the grown up friend.
Maybe I just need a nap?