Pastors, your Mother's Day stuff is nice and all buuut....

I have friends who skip church for Mother's Day because of you.
After being told she's less of a woman by people who were supposed to be on her side, your decision to have mothers stand and be honored or prayed over by the congregation has driven her decision. Even 50 some-odd years later, my father still grieves the loss of a child, and then the other loss 30ish years ago. My FATHER, a man, who is supposed to apparently be stoic and push aside *his* grief. My own husband is having a difficult time of it himself. My best friend's grandmother had a loss in the 60s, and the doctor was anything but compassionate toward her. She told him to never say that crap again and he was not to return to her room. He returned the next day with more of the same junk, and she threw a bar of soap at his head. She is 50+ years out from that loss, it still burns with an indescribable ache, and she was one of the ones who suffered in silence all these years. Women like her are why I have my big mouth and why I refuse to keep it shut.

So, pastors, get creative. Get compassionate. Get your congregation involved. Get them talking. Get them to understand the pain. Get them to show love to the women with empty arms, even if they also have full ones.

I will keep it simple and share these links with you, because they say it so much better than I could or would. 

http://www.messymiddle.com/an-open-letter-to-pastors-a-non-mom-speaks-about-mothers-day/
http://www.messymiddle.com/Beyond-the-surface-of-mothering

I am NOT saying skip the celebrating of mothers. I am saying shift a couple gears and rework it. I'm saying that while you're celebrating mothers in May and fathers in June, that you plan for October to honor the reason parents grieve too. I'm saying you've got noble intentions, and there is room to make it better. Believe me, word will get out that you do something awesome for the moms-of-a-different-sort, and you will build your community and have a group of women who are going to wrap their arms around newly-grieving families so that they do not suffer in silence like my friend's grandmother and countless other women, or like my father and husband.

Bittersweetness

It's been an interesting several weeks since my last post, fraught with cognitive failure and the pendulum sweeping the other way to sheer brilliance for a fleeting second. I should be sleeping right now, because the clock is ticking on the incessantly hungry infant's tummy. But I am sitting in the silence and relative stillness of the house, with only my brain running at warp speed. Such is the joy of an ADD brain. It's 1 am and I'm unable to get my brain to shut up at all tonight.

I have been seeing this one blog post about "The Last One" in my crackbook feed numerous times this week. Finally, I read it. And in doing so, my eyes welled up and my brain started running even faster. I never imagined I'd have FIVE kids in my life. I figured  after #3, and we were good. Then I had a 4th, and thought we had 2 of each, we were golden. HAH! Have I mentioned that I was supposed to have a home office and a motorcycle?

The Tie Breaker is 3 months old and careening through his milestones with warp speed just like his siblings did. And I was looking at him asleep in my arms tonight, wondering what purpose God has for him to send him to us after we feel like we've screwed up at least one of our other kids some how or another. I am still shocked and awed that we were entrusted with the care, feeding, and training of another miniature human. I am boggled that my friend thinks so highly of me to ask that I would be Godmother to another of her children, when I am a slacker in so many ways, including my faith. But at the same time it's all humbling. How haughty of me to think I should strike out on some kind of adventure in my life that didn't necessarily include starting parenthood alllllllll over again.

And I am chronically struck by the sheer fact that we have TWO adult children, yet there are 3 more home, and that the youngest is a brand new sprog. I do derive bemusement from telling people our kids are 3 months old on up to 20 years old. Part of that is just me still trying to digest it. Part of it is that I am amused by the shock others have when they learn we're a larger-than-average family, and NOT a blended household. Yeah, we're rebels like that. I sometimes think that I should have been a sociologist.

But with all of that comes an occasional pang. I miss my boys sometimes. Reality is though, that they are at the point where they must transition into adulthood, despite my desire to keep the little boys they used to be. They're grown and turning into fascinating adults. And every time the baby smiles, I see both his brothers too. And then I see a quirk from one of his sisters. I thought I was done having kids after the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th. And I'm certainly feeling done after the 5th. With each of those done feelings comes a hint of sadness behind the celebration. First steps for them, but the last first steps for me. First teeth (oh lordy, who are we kidding, teething is abysmally miserable), first words, etc. And I find myself doing something I was incapable of 20 years ago. I find myself dwelling on the smile, the diaper change, the nursing (not always, because oof - someone is constantly touching me!), the giggles, the cooing, the completely different means this kid needs to get a burp out of him, the comforting a baby with reflux and knowing you can only do so much. Then I dig in my memory bank, wondering if the oldest 2 had any of these quirks and issues, and I just didn't have the knowledge then that I do now. Parenting would have been a whole different experience for both me and the spawn, had I been connected with the kind of people who share their story. When you know better, you do better. I hope I'm doing better.

And those well-intended words those veteran moms and old ldies shared when my oldest 3 were born: "Enjoy those babies". It is difficult when in the throes of sleep deprivation, missed showers, gross diapers, the whole kit-and-caboodle. I find myself feeling more present in this segment of the mom-gig. I constantly work to have balance and avoid losing my sanity. And I want to enjoy my kids. I just don't always find the wherewithal to do it. Despite my efforts to find balance, I sometimes don't have it. I rely heavily on my middle child now, and I have mixed feelings about it. She needs to make her own transitions toward growing up, but she's still a child too. And again, we strive for balance. She's incredibly helpful and has the capacity to follow her brothers into adulthood with a different brand of thinking and experience that will hopefully catapult her beyond her peers.

Each of the older kids loves the younger siblings. As much as I hate to admit that I miss my sons, one of them hates to admit he misses his newest brother. When they're here, they're awesome with the younger kids (usually). When they're here, I also selfishly breathe in their presence because I know they're not staying long. And I enjoy those fleeting moments, because I painfully recognize them for what they are. And then I look at this newest person to join our world, and think how much more I really do have the privilege of getting to know him before we launch him. It's a perspective that was impossible for me to properly possess two decades ago.

Pulmonary Revolt

My oldest, the Evil Genius, brought home some germ infestation recently. It struck strong and swiftly. Blessed is the husband who understands the value of his wife's health. Devildog sent me to the bedroom Monday evening, with my nest of stuff I'd need, so I could bed-surf and recuperate. I tried avoiding carbs and sugar all day with fair success till the evening. As I'm told, it slows your recovery when you consume those things. I then spent Tuesday and Wednesday bedsurfing as well. I would have still been there except things like signing up for a motorcycle endorsement class and a job yanked me out of the bed.
As with every variety of cold that comes my way, it becomes bronchitis. YAY! ASTHMA!
The coughing could be potentially tolerated if #1 it wasn't wearing me out, #2 it wasn't non-productive, #3 it didn't make me feel oxygen-deprived.

You know what happens when a mother's brain becomes oxygen-deprived, right?
It's never pretty.

Memories & Margaret Cho

As a kid, my favorite memory of watching Margaret Cho on tv, doing her standup comedy, was the story of her mom standing outside at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, yelling for the "keeeeeeeds" to get up and get dressed so they could go to "Mongomonery War".
I have absolutely no idea why or how that is my primary and only association of Margaret Cho, but that's just how my brain works sometimes. It's funny stuff, and my cognitive function grabbed THAT snippet and kept it. My brain is weird, and talking to my younger sister, it's a genetic mishap, and I got the lucky end of the weird stick.
Then again, she has had her own challenges, issues, and interactions that have colored her perspective on things. We both will have a different idea of the same event, and we lived in the same house, relegated to the same renovated sleeping porch turned into two 8x10 cells, a bathroom and laundry room. I'll have to tell you about Dad's construction later. This is about something completely different. We spent time at a Catholic school. After my initial culture shock of about the first 3/4 of my first year there for 6th grade, I had a couple AHA! moments and things got better for me. They never got better for my sister from 4th grade till she finally left after 7th grade. I never knew. Or I was just that obtuse and never paid attention. It never occurred to me to ask anything. If I'd known even an inkling of the crap people did to my sister, I would've tried to do something about it. I'm an Aquarius, my sense of justice is resolute. But I was unaware of the things my sister was subjected to till we were adults.
My childhood was not stellar. Dad worked hard, Mom stayed home to raise us. But mom had her own issues that never got resolved. Despite the 20 year age gap, the two of them had enough crap swept under rugs, that there was a LOT of carpet in their lives. So they lacked the tools and means to deal with the crap their kids got from other people. I didn't know my mom was molested until my aunt told me during the week she was here for mom's funeral. That explained a few things. I am thankful my aunt shared her view of my mother, because it truly helped me get in my mom's head enough to understand why she did things the way she had. As a child, I had been molested, and when I told my mother, she literally ran away from me. I had unwittingly shoved a sword into her own festering wound, and she couldn't handle it. Top it with the belief she was born with fetal alcohol syndrome, physically and emotionally abused by her parents (till the day her mother died in 1994 at that) and add in a car accident that toppled her around inside a 15 passenger van in the later 1980s, and you have a mother who honestly was not fully right in the head. So, in the end, we found ourselves learning about life from neighbors, parents of friends, enemies, strangers, and everywhere else those lessons presented themselves to us. The fact that the younger 3 kids (I jokingly call the 2nd litter) are able to cook creatively with flavor, and that we don't just take my very Irish grandmother's approach and just boil everything - is AMAZING. I still have issues with overcooking and scorching though.
All through elementary school, I was called names. I really was weird by their perspective. I honestly was poor. Mom smoked (ugh), and we often came home to find a garbage bag of clothes on the doorstep. But my oblivion prevented me from seeing what I lacked fiscally. It didn't prevent my classmates from trying to make sure I knew what I was missing though. I thankfully was not bullied physically, and I think my oblivion is what spared me a lot of what others tried to inflict on me. I was still hurt by people, and the advice I'd been given never helped me. Looking back, I'm glad to have gotten away from that same circle of kids and that I got to go somewhere new for 6th grade. I was just sucktacularly prepared for any of the culture shock. It did teach me how to adapt to changes. I was around adults almost exclusively as a kid, so I didn't know how to act around other kids. They didn't know how to relate to me either. Even now, most of my friends are older than I am. I finally caught on to the way it worked after several months of struggle. And like most everything I do, once I get the hang of it, I have it, and I flourish (ie: knitting, crocheting, cooking). Then I went back to public school, and my past met me at the door. I'd changed, but no one else wanted to see that. My advantage was that I was stronger because I'd learned how to adapt, and was confident because the academics had become much easier for me after 3 years of Catholic school. I got through the challenges of that year, even begging my mother NOT to intervene and just let me handle it, because she would've just made things worse. I'd learned to read people, and I'd learned how to utilize the grapevine to my advantage. I preferred to hang out with the guys because they were not entirely up to catty BS like 99% of the girls were. Then as high school progressed I still had jerks in my day, but I wasn't as affected by them. Or so I thought. I had no idea of the true extent of my wounds. And I probably still don't, nor do I want to any more.
Over the years I'd been torn down by people trying to make themselves look, feel or sound better. Deep down, I knew I could do more, be more, and take Auntie Mame's advice and LIVE more. I just didn't know how to take a leap of faith.

Dead Roses

I am sitting here, trying to process some things, so bear with me a moment or few. I've been in this small 1100 square foot house for a little more than 6 years. We've grown to have a love/hate relationship with this house. There is always new hope in moving to a new place, and dread of schlepping your worldly belongings somewhere. Today's adventures took me to the laundry room, which equates to the "dungeon" of this house. It serves as a closet of sorts for Devildog and me, because our bedroom has no closet. It serves as extra storage for the stuff most people house in their garage. Well technically it IS the garage, except it's been enclosed and we now sleep in part of it. Anyway, I came across some roses from my mom's funeral, that had been wrapped in newspaper. I know I need to part with them. They're dead flowers. Dead flowers carry negative chi, according to the tenets of feng shui. Dead flowers kill a mood too. I was in what I call 'mission mode' pecking away at sorting through things on the shelf over the machines when I found them. I knew they were up there, but ignored them.

As I unwrapped them, with the intention of rewrapping them for some reason, I looked at them and knew I had to release them. They're dead flowers for pete's sake. They serve no purpose for me, they don't make me smile, they have no home here or will they in the new house. No problem right? Well for some reason I started getting emotional over some dead roses from my mother's funeral. Five year old dead flowers wrapped in newspaper shouldn't strum heartstrings. But they did just that to me. I looked at them a minute, and then took them outside and laid them under the loquat tree by the road. I couldn't just throw them in the trash, and we don't have a yard waste bin since the trash guys took our other garbage can (if they didn't leave it in the road it wouldn't get hit by cars). It was a logical step for me.

Except, doing that just did not feel right. I keep thinking I should take them to the new house and set them under a tree there. It keeps feeling like I'm leaving part of my mother at a house where I have no roots, nor ever intended to plant roots. And it just feels wrong. I sat down here and started blathering about it in my cleaning chat room (yes, question me later on that one), and in an IM to another person.

Then I had a bit of a revelation. When Mom died, she did not want Dad in the room with her. After 35 years together, you know a person, and Mom knew Dad would not handle watching her die very well, despite his iron-stomached stint at Walter Reed as an orderly tending the sickest of sick. She figured there would be the puddle of Dad goo that we would have to clean up and take home to the house they shared in all that. But it felt so very wrong for me to leave my mother alone, septic, smelling of horrid infection that is the "smell of death", but still present enough to know Dad was out of the room and actually try to leave before he and my brother got back. As soon as he returned, she perked back up. I think if they'd stayed downstairs five more minutes she would have accomplished her mission to leave without him there to see it. In my gut I knew I should stay, but I was driving Dad home. I could have sent him with my sister, but didn't. When I got home, I sat down and the phone rang. I knew it was the hospital calling. "Your mother has expired. I'm sorry for your loss." Perfunctory but polite. I asked what time she died. "11:16." She knew when Dad was safely at home again and held out long enough till she let go. They both were "home" at the same time, one last time.

Somehow I equated leaving those flowers from my mother's funeral to leaving my mother. Logically I know those flowers are not my mother. It still feels so very wrong to leave those dead roses by the tree at the roadside, like I felt it was wrong to leave her in the hospital alone to die. So, I've decided to take them to the new house and leave them by a tree there. I ultimately will release them, but it won't feel like I'm abandoning them - or my mother by the side of the road here.

Burdens & Birthdays

Today is my 17th BirthING Day. He's survived this long without me killing him, and that alone is a miracle. He's literally half my age, and acts it. We'll see if he survives to age 18. He's made some unwise choices, and carries a lot of perfectionism. If he can't do it right, he just rather assume to not bother. It's causing him problems. It no longer causes me problems so much as him, because I no longer assume responsibility for his choices. Besides he's long become outside the influence of his parents. We're just a couple hard-nosed old people who know nothing. So we left him to his decisions and the accompanying consequences. In turn, he no longer gets anything beyond basic food and shelter from us. It wouldn't surprise me if he has characterized us in an unpleasant manner, but I actually expect that. I figure eventually he'll own his choices and behave accordingly. Till then, I just follow St. Monica's example.

This morning was also the recommittal of my mother's remains in a new resting place. The ground for a new National Cemetery had not yet been broken when Mom left Dad behind. The next closest National Cemetery with space available in 2005 was down in Bushnell - quite the drive from where we are. With the promise of moving her as soon as we could, that's where Mom went. Finally in 2007, the new one opened and Dad was antsy every day, trying to save as much money as he could to get Mom moved. We couldn't just get a moving van and bring Mom to the new place, it had to be done by a funeral home. The exhumation and reburial was at no cost to Dad, but transport was. For his 83rd birthday, my oldest sister got the paperwork going and helped Dad get it done. So today, 2 weeks later, and on my son's birthday, Mom was reburied in the cemetery closer to home. Dad can finally relax and stop fretting about it, worried that he would leave us burdened with moving her.

We met Eileen, one of the volunteer auxilliary women who attend each burial, as a silent witness so no one is ever buried alone. My mother's reburial was not unlike her deathbed and funeral - a mix of every thing we are. Lots of bantering, some ribbing and some solemn moments. I'm sure Eileen did not expect us to be, well..., US. In her beautiful line of work, she sees those left here, suffering in their darkest of days, and probably rarely gets a family that has ample levity to share. We all met at the main building and drove my sister's car to the grave, and I left my camera in the mom-bus. I did have my phone with me though. It's very interesting to see how they do such a job. As they filled in the grave, tamping the dirt, my brother said something about tossing a box of Imitrex in there with her. I had to ask him to explain. He said that she had headaches all the time and was always taking Imitrex, and here they are pounding on her head with a tamper.












Dad didn't fall apart as much as we expected that he would. I think he's just relieved that he has mom closer to home. When we met members of the staff there or the guy from the funeral home, Dad kept referring to us as "her children" like he had no part in creating or raising us. I beg to differ, as I find myself repeating stuff my Dad used to say all the time. He is the reason we all have a sense of humor in the first place. I am thankful that for his birthday a couple weeks ago, the beginning of an unburdening began for him.

Mom's Birthday

Today was my mom's birthday, she would have been 62. I'm a naughty daughter, and I haven't called my father. I don't deal well with his emotions anymore, so I just don't deal with them at all. Bad. Bad. Bad. I was thinking of them both today. So in honor of it being Mardi Gras and Fat Tuesday, and mom's birthday, I made roasted chicken and egg noodles in honor of mom. It was the one meal my mother could not screw up, except that period of time she ate garlic alllll the time and sliced it into the dish, not crushing it first to get those special flavors mixed in the clove. YUK. I have yet to replicate her recipe, and maybe never will, but the oldest said "This chicken is bangin' with the noodles." I try. At least I didn't burn the food. I'm good about that. I didn't learn to cook from my mother. I learned how not to cook from her. Except the chicken and noodle thing. Brother and Sister both agree with me, that the chicken and egg noodles was her best meal. Everything else, I learned from the motherly-types around me, friends, neighbors, and even celebrities. My turkey gets cooked upside down, because that's how Celine Dion does hers. At least that's what she said on Oprah 13 years ago when I made my first Thanksgiving dinner, and invited my parents up to NC to join us. Dad was impressed. Then again, he'd been eating my mother's cooking all those years. I now understood why she never made us a birthday cake.

It's good to know your mother well

There are quirks about me that I inherited from my mother. Most notably is the one relating to first thing in the morning. I'm just like my mother in that regard, except less unpleasant looking. Just give me several minutes to become coherent, and preferably wait till I've had at least half a cup of coffee before talking to me about anything. For instance, my father went with us to my in-laws for Christmas last year. After sleeping on a fold out sofa, I needed some stretching and strong coffee to wake up and deal with well over a dozen humans crammed into a double wide trailer in South Carolina. Granted, that place is larger than my 1100 sq ft but more bodies equals fewer square feet per person. In any case, my father rises before the sun, as gerontological quirks require fewer hours of sleep. I peeled myself out of the bed at what I think is a fairly reasonable hour (8:30ish) and went about my routine for waking. After visiting the water closet, I tottered into the kitchen to get my java, all while my cheery father was repeatedly saying good morning to me, and trying to ask how I slept, and other attempts at conversation. I kept waving him off with a grunt, much like my mother (and his wife for 33+ years) did any time he attempted to talk to her that soon. He either didn't get the hint or didn't recognize the gestures and noise.
My sons tried to tell him. My nephew tried to tell him. It was all to no avail. Finally my oldest said "Grandpa, for everyone's safety, do NOT talk to her until she's had coffee and speaks to you first. Seriously, it's dangerous if you try to talk to her before she is fully awake." My father responded with "ah, ohh-kaaay" with a hint of personal offense taken by my lack of desire to talk to him. The man watched me and as I tipped the mug back for the near-final swig, he tried talking to me again, asking if it was safe to greet me. I shook my head no. The coffee wasn't strong enough, and would require a second one. It made me very grateful that I was able to convey to my children the understanding of my quirks, especially the first-thing-in-the-morning deal. I didn't want to be like that, but in all honesty I just don't move fast in the morning.
Fast forward to today. My neighborhood association had a yard sale last week that was essentially rained out, so they quickly decided to do it again this weekend. I spaced out about it, even though i wanted to go scope it out, if nothing else to look at other people's clutter they were trying to pawn off on the rest of the world. Again I move slow in the morning, and slower when I'm not completely healthy. We ended up going over there as the last 3 people were packing up to go back home. My son the Beast, trailed along after the episode of NCIS he was watching ended, while Clone and I were already done. He snagged himself a couple 1000 piece puzzles (insert motherly eyeroll here) a PS2 game, and a mug. He came to show it to me and upon returning it, the mug's seller saw him with it and told him to just take it. He's excited about free stuff (it's genetic, my apologies). He brought it over to show me and yes, it rather aptly describes me in the mornings. But he's unwilling to let me have this mug, tells me to get my own.

It's Friday alright

It's been a busy day, with a couple of really irritating things, and one really good thing. I am going to a PJ party with my girls. Grown women in sweats and yoga pants, lounging on air mattresses, hanging around drinking wine and other adult beverages, stuffing our faces with the various sweets, treats and snacks contributed, and having a good time of it. We haven't seen much of each other in several months and I'm ready to go. Except...I can't find the overnight bag that is big enough. I need to bring bedsheets and a blanket. It doesn't take much to heat or cool me, and there are some menopausal women in this gaggle of girlfriends of mine. They will likely keep the place like a meat locker. But it's fine for tonight because I need a Girls Night Out. Regardless of whether it's a Friday or not.

Third Anniversary

I have to preface my post with a disclaimer of sorts. I'm not posting this to ask for your condolences. Actually I ask that you not offer them because quite honestly I don't need them. I am posting this to honor the memory of my mother, who I didn't get the chance to be friends with like most adult daughters grow to be friends with their mothers often get to do. My mother, unlike many I've heard about, let me go into the world even though it must have been incredibly difficult. She had abandonment issues, and subscriptions to other personal caveats that made our lives as her offspring more difficult than our peers' lives. I was not the teenage daughter my mother thought she had once I turned 16 and met the guy who later became my husband. He didn't care much for my mother, mostly because he was an outsider and his empathetic gene got implanted in his backside (this observation stems from 16 years personal experience with him). It added to the situation that my mother's subscriptions hindered the relationship he and I tried to build. He respected her simply because she was my mother, and knowing her even a little may have allowed him a glimpse of why I am the way I am or have been in the past. He amazed me when she was in her final days. He got out of my way, and did what he could to alleviate things around the house so I could focus on my parents. Dad always expected to go first since he was born 20 years before Mom. Dad also wasn't born with a reversed bowel to an abusive alcoholic and manipulative mother who didn't really want children in the first place. I learned more about my mother in her death than I did while she was alive. She kept her story a secret to protect herself, bandaging her wounds in much different fashion than I bandage my own. I vowed that my children would have the opportunity to know more about me while I was alive than they would find out from other places and people when I was gone. I'd like to think that I made peace with my mother's death even before she left this earth, or maybe soon afterwards. I don't know. Maybe I'm just darn good at shoving that stuff aside and I haven't triggered a stampede of emotions. I process things differently than most others I know, so anything is possible. I will tell you that I won't have the same kind of transition when my 82 year old father dies, that's for sure. He literally is the glue in the family, and I fully expect that his 6 children will splinter and polarize. My mother was his second wife, and Dad outlived both wives due in part to that hardy Irish stock from whence we come, and sheer stubbornness I think. There was always animosity between my mom and Dad's first wife, and 2 of the 3 older siblings. One liked to egg her on, the other never understood the dynamic of my parents till Mom died. Dad relied on Mom, Mom relied on Dad. She made him happy after so many years of sadness, and he lived for my mother and my mom lived for my dad. Dad's first marriage was not on that same level, so my sibling was always full of anger, self-pity, and selfish blindness that they lacked the ability to truly see the light till it was no longer there to see. This anniversary, I wanted to finally visit my mother's grave in the Veteran's Cemetery 3 hours south of here. Lots of circumstances, mostly financial, kept me from that. I can go visit anytime, since she's really not going anywhere any time soon. At least, she won't be for a little while. The VA has nearly completed the construction of a new Veteran's Cemetery here, and Dad wants to move Mom as soon as that's possible. I want to visit the current resting place at least once before he does move her. I also fear that as soon as she's moved, we'll be putting Dad there as well soon after. Dad went to Mass this morning, and I was asked to go. Selfishly I did not. Some of it is a financial issue leaving me with not enough gas to get around nearby, much less across town. Plus my daughter needed to be dropped off at school at the same time Mass started. Most of it though is that I can't and just don't want to deal with my father's emotions today. I've been the dumping post for several relatives and their issues. I don't mind really, but it came all at once, coinciding with a raging bout of PMS, and I can't help solve any of it. I can pray for their situation, and that's it. Emotionally it's been a bad week for me and I really didn't feel that taking on anyone else's weaknesses (because I'm overly empathetic that way) was going to be wise for my own and my immediate family's well being. They're the ones that have to live with me day to day, and I can't be torturing them with my own mood swings any more than a normal PMS week would hold. So I left my father and my siblings hanging and did not join them. I told Dad and Sis ahead of time that I wouldn't be there. I got a call from my younger brother asking about it, I think mostly because he couldn't find the chapel where the daily Mass is held in the mornings. I wouldn't know anyway since it's Dad's beautiful, historic parish. Mine is closer to my house, distinctively modern and assaults my sister's sensibilities and sends her into an anxiety attack. I've pondered a variety of things about my mother, including numerous comments from my dad about how much like her I am. Because she bandaged her wounds differently, Dad didn't see that my younger siblings bear part of her as well. He merely sees that I have the tendency to be comfortable with a variety of tasks that my mother did as well. As I repaired a friend's coffee table one Sunday, he said that Mom was like that too. He was impressed when he was informed that I aided the installation of my kitchen cabinets (DH did most of the work though), saying Mom helped him with their home improvements during their 35 year relationship. Yes, Dad, I know. What he forgets is that I learned it by watching him too. I learned what a good husband should be like by watching how he treated my mother. I learned what NOT to do as a parent by watching my mother. I also know she was handed a salty lot in life, and the fact that she handled things as she did really shows that she was stronger than most perceived her to be. She did better as a parent than her own mother did. Likewise, I too am a better parent than my mother was to me most times. I'm not flawless, but I'm more human because of it. Each of her children has a piece of her in them. My brother has her hair, and some of her little quirky gestures. Sis has a lot of mom's mental health stuff, a few gestures and a couple physical features that I lack (as in mammaries with substance). I got mom's food allergies, and temper. We all have both our parents' handiness. So as each year passes since Mom's death, I have come to appreciate my gifts from her. I no longer resent my siblings mean-spirited commentary from several years ago about how I'm "JUST like Mom" because once I got to know her better posthumously, I now take it as a compliment. I'd still like to think I'm more like Dad though, but ultimately every child is a mix of their co-creators and their experiences.

Sometimes I do miss my mother, but she raised us to be independent of her for good reason. I often find myself a little envious of most of my friends who still have their mothers around to dislike and be frustrated by them, because three years ago, I lost that privilege. So when I embarass my children, or frustrate them, or whatever it is I do to them because you know mothers push the buttons (hey we installed them!), I hope that someday my children will relish those moments with me in their lives even if it doesn't happen till I'm a memory.