My four year old left for his first full day of Pre-K today. And my seven year old is already on day three of second grade.
But today is my first day, at home, without my children. No kids, people. No kids until 2:30 in the afternoon!
What to do with myself.
*Silence*
It’s so quiet. It felt great at first. And then, pretty damn lonely too. No noise? …Does not compute.
I can hear the cat snoring on my bed in the other room.
It’s so very quiet.
But there is a strange pang within that I am trying to come to grips with.
No, it’s not a weepy, “oh I miss my boys” pang. It should be, right? I know. So throw in a side of guilt. I SHOULD miss them. And of course I do. But I’m ok with this moment of their new found independence. How am I so calm? Well, my wonderful kids did a fine job over these last few days of summer of making SURE I wouldn’t miss them too much. They did what they could to get under my skin just enough so that I would simply smile and wave, rather than weep and sob, as my husband’s car pulled out of the drive way. They’re thoughtful kids like that. And I love them so.
(And they were so damn ready for school. With beaming grins they practically whooped and hollered as they climbed into the car. How can I not feel happy and at peace about that?)
No there is another strange non-weepy pang within that I am trying to tease apart and figure out.
I think it does partly have to do with guilt. But really it’s this feeling that I need to be doing something productive with myself.
I have all of this time here. And it’s quiet enough to actually think. And nothing is getting any messier. I have the day at my finger tips. Most sane women would throw the laundry in the air, grab that box of bon-bons and dive into a whole round of soaps, dammit. After seven years of wiping asses and making sandwiches and ducking plastic toys – a little relax time is well deserved, right?
*wringing my hands*
I can’t quite get there.
You see for so long I have dropped any and all expectations of myself and my productivity to an all time low. If I can get myself showered and clothed well then YAY for me. Quiet time in the bathroom? It’s a lot to ask but weeee, its a nice bonus when it happens!
But now I can spend as much quiet time in or out of the bathroom as I’d like. At least until 2:30pm. Every other day.
But you see, I feel obligated to get my ass in gear. To DO something CONSTRUCTIVE already. Maybe something that earns money? Posts? Follow ups? Maybe start being more aggressive about ways I can pimp myself for some fabulous, oh so sought after writing cash?
*drumming fingers*
I’m still figuring that all out.
Or maybe actually get this place cleaned up for once? Laundry in its place. Dishes done BEFORE dinner. Oh, plan and MAKE dinner AHEAD of time! Clean out my closet. Change that damned kitty litter.
Or maybe I can finally be that mom who makes muffins and cookies and has them ready when they get home! And maybe I can be that mom who is calm and loving because I’ve HAD my “ME” time for the day. I can feel refreshed and ready to *bing* (cue cheery, June Cleaver smile) be that wonderful mom I swore I could be before I got knocked up.
What to do.
I can’t just do nothing anymore. I can’t just wallow in time to myself. My husband works his butt off all day, everyday (weekends too, I swear) all for us. SITTING AROUND just doesn’t seem… right.
But it’s weird too, you know? Just weird. Weird for me to prioritize my schedule the way I want to without any distractions from 8:00am – 2:30pm three times a week.
(That may not seem like that much time but, my friends, it’s a lifetime to me… a lifetime I tell you!)
So what have I done today so far? I have been productive but its been all about catch up and follow up and just doing things I should have had done days or weeks ago.
I didn’t even do the bills.
I didn’t make those muffins either.
And it’s 1:30pm.
Maybe I can squeeze those muffins in right now.
This new time to myself world is a strange, odd, unfamiliar transition for me. But I had better get used to it. Whether I make myself super useful or put myself first in whatever way – my kids are going to be spending more and more time away from me.
(Oh that weepy stuff WILL catch up with me, don’t you worry about that.)
Next year they will be in school all day, every day. Then it’s middle school and sleep overs. And then high school and driving. And then college.
My eldest is ONLY ten years away from COLLEGE.
Time to get my ass in gear and figure out what the hell to do with my time. Time to finally establish myself as a useful human being, capable and ready to make my mark on this universe in so many other ways than parenting.
The girl inside the ticket booth could not have been older than 15. A swath of bottle dyed black hair was swept over eyes, she had braces and a few piercings circling her lips. How did those piercings avoid clashing into her braces? Brain dead from my day, I considered her mouth while the kids bashed my legs and pulled at my arms.
“Uh, you better get here like SO early.” She peered out at me from behind the swath.
“Yeah good call. I was planning on it. How early do you think?”
“Uh, like an hour?” She leaned forward. “Like, at least? I mean, we did the midnight showing here last night? And like every theater? Was sold out. Seriously.” Her eyes were wide now. I was impressed.
“Wow. Ok, I’ll make sure to get here early. Thanks.”
She smiled widely and her braces twinkled. She and I had connected. She was more than half my age and yet she made eye contact and offered her beautiful smile because she was into what I was into at that very moment. Yeah you’ve probably guessed it (*insert reader eyeroll here*). I’m talking about Twilight.
I’ve written about this before. I’ve justified my fascination in about ten different ways. I felt that I needed to get on my soapbox and spout off why I’ve lost myself in this whole saga. And I got on that soapbox because, well, I am a little embarrassed about liking it. I still am.
And now the third movie has come out and I have collected a small crew of women to head out and see it on Saturday.
Acting, special effects and plot aside – I ask only one thing of it. One thing. And that is to escape for two hours. Make me pretend I am not where I am and somewhere very very different instead. Transport and transform me. For two hours. That’s all I ask.
Because have you seen the news recently? Here are some headlines from today alone.
And then there’s the usual stuff. You know, scraping it together to pay the mortgage on a house worth half of that. Parenting boys alone while your husband travels. Never getting anything done – or if done, done well. Ear infections preventing any pool time for two weeks. Forgetting to schedule that mammogram. Frustration over childcare. Screaming tantrums in the grocery line. Jello dropped on the carpet. Missing your mom. A lot.
Life is what it is. Sometimes it’s tough. Sometimes it’s not so bad. Everyone has their stuff. But I am simply looking to the end of this week as a way to check out for two hours into a kind of cheesy, fairly predictable but highly addictive little storyline which takes me out of blistering hot Florida and drops me in a small rainy logging town in the corner of our country.
Is that so bad?
With all the horribleness going on in the world alongside the general stressy crap that goes on in our day to day lives, being this invested in a campy, over commercialised tale about vampires and werewolves fighting over the same girl is hardly anything to get your panties in a bunch about.
Jacob and Edward aside, I’m Team “Mommy go out and get a life”.
Yes, I have children and I am a mother. But that seems besides the point. This is MY mother’s day. It is about my very own mother who raised me the best way she could figure out at the time. And it’s also about my halted, muddled attempts at realizing this and thanking her enough for any of it.
Peanut butter and banana sandwiches after school while watching Wheel of Fortune.
Kneading bread with heaps of brown sugar, flour, warm smells, rising comfort.
Flashcards in our green Plymouth station wagon, pulling a trailer of camping gear across country.
Homework at the dining room table while I cried and whined and dramatized how miserable math was. She sat there until it was done.
Scrawled crayon cards with pictures of princesses and unicorns and rainbows. Happy Mother’s Day Mommy.
A song once. Made up lyrics rhymed to the tune of “Free to Be, You and Me”. Maybe my last public declaration exclaiming how much I loved my mom.
Dropped at the bank to open a checking account without her help. A bus schedule and directions to the doctor’s office. Put on airplanes without an adult. Told to walk home. Call them yourself. I needed to learn. I did.
Angry and telling her so, all the time. Awkward attempts at affection. Her confused reasoning. Still angry, resigned, she’s my mother.
Errands to run, lists to follow, you go down this aisle, I’ll go down that one. Hold my bag. Go get a cart. Run over to that store, ask them for this, yes they will know what that is. Ignoring my looks, my arms folded, my whispers of “whatever”. We have to get all of this done today.
Cape Cod summers with my grandparents. She worked all summer. And we played at the beach.
Didn’t understand. Wouldn’t let me do anything. Never listened. The only person in the world with a mother like this. She waited, ignored, got on with it.
Car keys, an enormous old Ford Taurus, an empty beach parking lot, reading a book in a beach chair while I practiced over and over and over. You’ll get it, you’ll be fine.
Picked out cards in CVS. Which one made sense for her? My awkward attempts at thank yous. Not sure she heard them. Not sure I was genuine enough.
Consistent inconsistencies, eye-rolling frustrations, wishing for something else. And then I had children.
Her stories of parenting. Her constant advice. Breastfeeding never hurt for her, it must be something I was doing wrong. They will figure it out. Be patient. Don’t be silly, you’re a very good mother. Kiss them for me.
A call. “Happy Mother’s day, Mom.” “Thank you. And to you too. How are the boys?” A call was enough somehow.
And then she was gone.
And now it’s Mother’s Day. But it’s not my day. It’s my mother’s day. So I am unsure of how to honor her without a call to make or sending scribbled thank yous on a CVS card.
So I suppose I’ll do what I usually do every day since she died: remember, wonder, grieve, apologize, wish, consider. But really just remember.
It’s my mother’s birthday today. She would have been 67.
Like I’ve done most years on this day, I wish I was sitting here feeling badly about not having sent her anything too spectacular for her birthday. Usually she might get some picture or drawing or small little last minute thing from the kids. Which she loved. She was not a fan of getting older. She never expected the red carpet treatment and I don’t think she wanted any attention drawn to the fact anyway. But she always appreciated the little stuff. The little stuff was just fine.
I wish she was back home watching all those bulbs she worked so hard to get into the ground finally coming up. And the daffodils and forsythia. I wish she knew about all that has happened since her death this summer. My 3yo is finally potty trained and going to school and kind of reading now. And my 6yo lost all kinds of teeth, is growing so fast and got straight A’s on his report card. And that book she bought him for his birthday last May, the one about all the baseball parks, I want her to know he has read and loved that book so much, its cover is gone, the binding is cracking and pages are slipping out.
And folks could say she’s here and she knows and she is with us. I know she is. I can feel her lots of the time. But it’s not enough. Call me selfish but I wish she was at the other end of the line when I call the DC house. I wish I could drive down to the Tampa airport and watch her get off the escalator, bumbling along with a million bags, her huge jug of water and hair askew, excited for another visit with her grand kids. THAT’S what I want.
I’m not grateful enough for what I have of her now just like I wasn’t grateful enough for what I had then. Things don’t change I suppose.
Somehow – thanks to careful coordinating with my husband’s work schedule, begging a close friend to take my kids for an entire day, and fantastic airline prices – I have managed a weekend get-away for myself. To Boston.
I justified my trip as my first chance to meet my BFFs new baby girl. And I truly can NOT wait to hold that sweet baby in my arms.
But let’s be real.
It’s been a lot of 24/7 with my boys recently. A LOT. As a college coach, my husband is in season and crazed (and also in dire need of a break, I might add). So I’ve been doing the single mom thing quite a bit. Groundhog days fill my spring, as they have for years. No complaining here, I swear, its just… this trip? Yeah. Well, I’m thinking of it as my own little kind of spring break.
And while most winter weary college co-eds are packing up sunscreen, bikinis and fake IDs – I’m collecting my “winter” gear, my camera and I just might dust off my ID to maybe try it out at a bar *IF* they even ask for it…
The novelty of one bag of just MY stuff. The possibility of stopping at a coffee shop in the airport to read my book. No bedtime routine. New faces. No dreaded car line. Dressing only myself, not three. Sleep. No homework. City, not suburbia. No coercing my 3 year old to eat his chicken. Just my full attention on my bestie and her family.
(Please note that doing “auntie” things by helping get her girls ready or fed or whatever needs to be done doesn’t count as parenting. It’s completely different, I swear.)
Because it’s the little things. It’s uncovering and reuniting with yourself. It’s being your own person, and not always always always a mom. Just for two days. That’s all.
I love my 24/7 with my boys. That’s what I signed on for. And I am grateful for it.
And here sits the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition.
She’s very pretty. No she is. Super cute. Good for her. I saw her on the Today Show this morning saying how getting this cover is like winning the Super Bowl of modeling. And how cool it is that they print her name on the cover too (because *shocker* models have names as well as bodies). She seemed very nice and I hope she has a very successful career.
But yo. He’s coming home and I’ve got a feeling he’s going to walk right past me and into the loving arms of … wait let me check… Brooklyn Decker and all her glossiness.
I mean how can a scroungy mommy of two boys in an old college sweatshirt, ratty headband, and pink slippers even consider competing with the beautiful Ms. Brooklyn. Me with sidewalk chalk on my jeans and milk on my sleeve and a slight headache from trying to convince my six year old to write two fricking sentences about his favorite thing at school. Just two. Why the tears and the drama?! And I’ve only JUST got them to bed and finally ate a little dinner so screw tiny yellow bikinis and un muffin-topped bellies. I say YAY to headbands and sweatshirts and pink slippers. And sleeping children. Ahhhhh….
Oh he just got home! Well hello there husband! How was your day? Oh a few of your students didn’t show up for the test today? That’s not cool. He’s shaking his head, now grading papers in front of “Lost”, a beer cracked open at his side.
However. The magazine is lying face down right here next to me. He doesn’t know she’s here waiting.
Because there’s her… OR there’s me looking just fiiiine. A certain special kind of fine he sees – ohhhh – just about everyday.
Course he’d pick me. No insecurity here. None. Zero. Zilch.
No really. It’s cool.
I’m going to go give him his magazine. And a big ol’ smooch.
It’s so predictable isn’t it? The holidays arrive on the scene and *BAM* time to get all buuuummed out again. Yup, here I’ve been moving along pretty well the past few months. I’ve somehow managed to keep my “happy” momentum going at a fairly steady, normal-ish pace… and then the holidays come along and that momentum fades to a slow, hiccuping crawl.
Because, oh yeah. My mom is gone.
It’s a strange thing. My mother has lived many states away from me for almost two decades. She’s even lived continents away from me at times. It’s been years since I’ve lived near my mother for very long periods. Honestly, I’m not sure either of us would have survived it if I had. So I have prepared for the holidays without her many times over. I’ve spent most Thanksgivings without her. I’ve even had quite a few Christmases without her too.
So why is it that this year, as I drive by neighborhood decorations and pick up a poinsettia for my front stoop, that I feel such blank, cold loss?
Ok, sure. It’s because she’s gone.
But still. Sometimes (and here’s when the guilt creeps it’s way in) the void she’s left rings through my soul much MUCH more loudly than her actual presence ever did. She seems to have made a larger impression on my life dead than she did alive.
Ugh. That’s real nice.
But I’ll just assume there’s probably some very logical explanation for this, straight out of a psychology text book, under the chapter marked “Grieving Process”. (There better be, or else it’s probably found under the chapter marked “Sucky Daughter”.)
Whatever it is, I have no say over it. I’m simply sad because someone – who was never here very much anyway – is gone forever.
Here’s the thing. I LOVE Christmas time. I totally over-do the lights and holly and the silver and gold. And Christmas music? I think I may have five versions of every jingle. You want “Winter Wonderland”? Well, I’ve got that in Bing Crosby, Louis Armstrong and Frank Sinatra. Bring it. I love to get all holly jolly up in here.
So I really WANT to be happy. And I think I can be happy this year. I just need a little Christmas cheer, that’s all. Because I don’t have our tree up yet (we only just got back from our Atlanta a few days ago). But I would bet my last candy cane that I’ll feel much much better once we do. MUCH better. And when we go to see the local Christmas lights show, I’ll simply ooze with yuletide glee. And then I’ll make some sugar cookies (and stuff my face with half the batch), pour myself a hearty glass of wine, haphazardly toast my fantabulously over-decorated tree and fricking CRANK those Christmas tunes… (Mmmmm, Christmas with the Carpenters. That Karen, she has got a voice of an angel, I tell you….)
That’s called COPING, people.
Really though, I just need to learn to do things differently this year. I need to work around the loss. Not ignore it. Just acknowledge that its there, maybe drop a little tinsel on it, offer it a spot near the tree and hand it over a cup of rum-soaked eggnog. There’s no other way around it – grief and loss will just have to be part of the… er… festivities.
So, here’s where I pull myself up by my Christmas stockings and get on with it.
Right?
Just get on with it.
Ching ching ching.
Deck those halls.
Feel the spirit.
Ok.
….ok.
(And here’s a little Christmas diddy for my mom from Karen herself…)
So I was sitting at the intersection of Target and Suburbia this morning at around 8:00am. My kids were strapped into the back, their backpacks sitting on the seat next to me. The 80s station was on, and Dixie’s Midnight Runners were bidding Eileen to “Come on”.
That particular intersection takes it’s time in the morning with cars moving, plodding their way out of their gated communities, through green lights and towards the interstate. So there I sat, amongst the a.m. idling, waiting my turn, mind blank, when I happened to look over at the mini van next to me.
There was nothing much to see at first. A blue mini-van, the standard suburban Tampa mode of transportation, with a woman at the helm and the top of a baby seat strapped in the back, barely visible.
Nothing unusual for the intersection of Target and Suburbia.
Except, this woman? She was crying.
Not hard. Just staring straight ahead, sunglasses on, wiping tears when they came. Her expression was blank. I noticed a cigarette smoldering in her left hand, hung out an open window. Now and then she took a drag, then leaned out the window to blow it out, waving it away from her car. Back to staring. Back to wiping at her face. Back to having no idea she was being watched (although discreetly, behind my own sunglasses – I knew I was intruding on her moment).
It was a quiet cry. Not a sob. Not a quick couple of tears either. These seemed like the kind of tears that couldn’t help but spill over ceaselessly, no matter how stone faced she remained. Down they slid. Wipe. Take a drag. Fan the air. Stare.
My heart stopped and broke for this woman.
And then my mind raced to determine what could bring her to this moment.
It could have been any number of things.
Money. What if her family was struggling. What if her husband was about to be laid off. What if she had just finished balancing her check book and found no hope of any kind of balance. What if she knew there was nothing left. And Christmas ahead. And a Nintendo DS already promised to her son if he was a good boy. And loans and credit lost and unpaid bills and increased percentage rates and collection agencies and this damn mini-van that they never really could afford in the first place but were now stuck with. Could they get out of their home? Move in with her parents? Just for a little while. Could they ever get what they had back?
Or what if it was her marriage. What if after eight years, she woke up and realized she didn’t know her husband any longer. What if she suspected his attention was elsewhere. And his apparent indifference to their marriage meant that he was hardly covering his tracks. And she knew. And she had three children to care for and no idea what to do. Except to ignore and wait and hope it will just go away. And maybe, after enough time had passed, they would both remember why they had married each other in the first place. But until then, she was stuck raising her children and just ignoring.
She could have gotten a call from her doctor too. Her doctor could have told her the results came back positive. And she would need this kind of treatment, and that much recovery, and years of waiting to find out if it was ever going to be ok again. And her insurance was iffy at best. How much would this cost? And she is a mother, she has no time for this. Who was going to breast feed her baby? So she couldn’t bring herself to call anyone and tell them. Not yet. All that it could cost her family, no one needed to know. Not quite yet.
Or what if her mother just died. If that was the case, I should have simply put my car in park, gotten out, opened her door and given her an enormous hug. (And then maybe run back to my car quickly before she fumbled for her cell and dialed 911.)
Or maybe it was just another typical day. Maybe her baby had been up every 2 hours again. And had been waking up every two hours every night of her 9 months of life. Maybe the exhaustion was impossible to bear. But she had to drop her children at school. And pick up groceries. And talk to her son’s teacher about his behavior issues and make sure the air conditioner repairman didn’t rip her off. And deal. Just always deal. While the baby starts crying again. And only children at her feet and no adult home until 9:00pm because he was busting his hump to make sure they had a roof over their heads. It was just another typical day and that alone was enough.
I don’t know what it was. And I won’t ever know. But I understand. And I hope she will find some way out of her pain. Because that’s it. While we make these choices in our lives and take on the weight of the world, we just have to decide which way we are going to go. Forward? Up and out of the pain? Down the path of least resistance? Do we find the right way for our families? But are we making the best choices for us too? We hesitantly move our way through every crossroad. But we have no way of knowing where we will find ourselves someday. No way.
I hope she found her way. I hope with all my soul that she found peace. But I won’t ever know.
At that moment, the lights changed. She turned left into suburbia and I went straight past Target. And she was gone. And my kids were on their way to school. We all carried on with our lives. Another typical day.
As the month of October comes to an end, I am sharing my mother’s story as one last reminder about breast cancer awareness. Please read, consider, educate yourself and share.
My mother did not die from breast cancer. In fact, she was diagnosed many years ago. We found out she had a malignant lump in her breast days before her 50th birthday in 1993. The lump was small and hidden close to her armpit – she could not feel it no matter how hard she tried. But it was detected and it had begun to metastasize.
We have a long history of breast cancer in our family. My grandmother, my aunt and my grandfather’s sister are all survivors. They were all diagnosed after menopause and they all survived. And knowing her history, my mother marched in for annual screenings. Did she feel that it was only a matter of time? I think so. And so do I.
But here’s the kicker to her story. She only found it because she had two mammograms. You’d think one mammogram would be enough, right? The first screening saw “something” but they had determined it was only a cyst. Not to worry. Yeah, not my mom. So she went and got a second opinion. She sought out the best of the best. And they confirmed what she feared.
It was not a cyst.
After a lumpectomy and further testing, her malignancy lead to six months of chemotherapy and radiation. And hair loss, and sickness, and depression, and a nice schnazzy wig to top it off (that she often muttered “never looks quite right”).
But here’s my point. My mother went on to survive another sixteen years after her diagnosis. She went on to have an amazing career working with food aid, traveling the globe and trudging through rice paddies in Asia. She went on to watch both of her children graduate and marry and have three grandchildren. She went on family trips and work trips – trumping my father’s record number of countries visited. She lived those next sixteen years fully. Sixteen years she may not have had if she were not aware of her breast cancer risks. Sixteen years she may not have had if she never followed up with a second opinion and mammogram. Sixteen years she might not have had if she didn’t get amazing care and thorough treatment (that she could luckily afford).
My mother may have passed this summer but she was a breast cancer survivor for sixteen years. And for those sixteen years, her entire family is extraordinarily grateful.
Find out your family’s history. Do monthly checks. Have annual mammograms if it is recommended at your age. Talk to your doctor. Consider all of your options. Don’t ignore anything. Be your own best advocate.
To contribute to my my mother’s Susan G. Komen memorial fund, please click on her icon at the top of this post. Thank you.
The brain is an amazing thing. It takes flying leaps of faith and swears to truth – when there is nothing. It fills in gaps with synaptic trickery to cover over painful voids. It holds on to years of experience and pieces together something realistic – simply because it remembers. It relies on the empirical but bases its final verdict on emotion. It simply wants to believe.
Yeah, well, it seems that when someone close to you in your life passes away, you experience the same kind of thing.
Phantom Mom Phenomenon.
No, it’s not what you think. My mother has not appeared to me in a shimmering, white form next to my bed insisting I buy a replacement pumpkin Mickey ball.
At least, not that I am aware of.
No, I’m talking about that phenomenon where you swear that person is really still there. Still alive. Still sitting in her office in her DC home playing solitaire at her computer with one cigarette smoldering in her ashtray, furry slippers on her feet and an Ensure on ice on the desk.
My father knows what I’m talking about. Without thinking, he has caught himself calling out her name while waking up in the morning. He finds himself picking up her usual groceries at the store. He assumes she is home when he arrives, her shoes tucked neatly by the door seemingly filled only minutes before.
I struggle in my own ways too. I assume that the call coming in from “DC Home” on my cell is always my mother – as it has been for years. And even when it’s my father’s voice, it takes a moment to register because my mind has simply given my mother’s voice a little extra gravel and depth – she just needs to clear her throat. No wait. She’s dead. It’s Dad. Whoa. Ok. Hi Dad.
And I have been having these recurring dreams recently. Or maybe they’re nightmares. I’m not sure. To put it in the words of the lovely Beyonce, it could be a “sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare“. Whatever you call it, my brain convinces me on a regular basis that my mother is in fact very much alive.
Cruel isn’t it? Although I am guessing this is all probably very typical. Nevertheless, here’s how my dream goes…
In my dream, my mother’s death is only her family’s collective nightmare. In my dream, it is early in the morning and we are all gathered in front of my living, breathing mother. Fresh from our beds, we stare in utter shock, while she stares back at us and laughs. We tell her we thought she was dead. “I’m FINE” she insists. “No really.” And she looks back at us again like we’ve lost our ever-loving minds. And then we ask her how she pulled off the memorial service, the whole casket thing. “Because Mom, you really looked dead.” But she seems to insist we all just had some doozy nightmares. No big deal. She is currently alive and well. And then she goes into full “Mom mode” listing off all the chores we need to accomplish, which stores we need to hit first, full of sass, full of too much “get up and go” that instinctively makes me roll my eyes and prepare myself to become her daylong personal assistant. It’s so real. She IS alive in that dream. And in the end we are all entirely convinced, shaking our heads at our assumptions, letting the nightmare fade away. It was just a bad dream. My mother isn’t dead. Phew, phew (even though we have to do chores now), PHEW.
But of course I wake up and she is dead. And that wonderful dream seems more like a nightmare. As wonderful as that moment was, the truth unlocks a fresh wave of grief. My brain, the tricky minx, brought her back to life. My brain knew exactly how to make her breathe and talk and task-master us with chores once again. My brain had convinced me.
Not cool.
But why do I have the urge to call my brother when I wake up and share with him that she’s actually fine? That she insisted she was, no REALLY.
Who knows. I mean, our brains are pretty smart things, right? And they may know something our rational, consciousness does not. Something could actually be setting off alarm bells deep within telling us she IS here. Somehow. Around. And fine. Whether she is real because of our rich, vivid memories, or she is now something more other-worldly and deeply spiritual. Maybe she is filling her own void in a new and different way.
I believe that. I do. But still. She’s gone. And my brain and I miss her.
My mom spent the last four Halloweens with us. She loved watching the kids get dressed up and carve pumpkins. She gladly held down the the fort and gave out candy while we set off to trick or treat. And last year, she helped me make a ghost for our front yard. I remember her finding the perfect gauzy material from the store. I remember her confidently running her hands over it, knowing exactly how much would work. After all, she had made these for my brother and I many years in a row, many years before. And before I knew it, she had created the very same ghost I grew up with, fresh from my childhood.
So yes. This Halloween, her ghost is here. In some way or another. In my dreams. In my memories. In my front yard. Or how she more often feels – only a breath away, over my shoulder, wishing me peace and whispering “I’m FINE. No really.”
My four year old left for his first full day of Pre-K today. And my seven year old is already on day three of second grade.
It’s so predictable isn’t it? The holidays arrive on the scene and *BAM* time to get all buuuummed out 
So I was sitting at the intersection of Target and Suburbia this morning at around 8:00am. My kids were strapped into the back, their backpacks sitting on the seat next to me. The 80s station was on, and Dixie’s Midnight Runners were bidding Eileen to “Come on”.
Phantom Mom Phenomenon.
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