06.30.09

Seven years

I’m struggling right now. It’s this time of year. I hate it.

This Saturday marks seven years since my mother died.

Seven years.

So much has happened over the last seven years, and she’s missed it all. I’m married, with children, her two beautiful grandchildren. She never knew me as a published writer, never got the chance to see Dave and I turn this house in to a home.

There are times when I look at my children – my daughter, all freckles and unkempt, sun-bleached hair and my son, with his chipped front tooth and dancing, mischievous eyes, and it will shoot through my head like a bullet: She never got to meet them. And grief’s cold, steady hand rises up from the depth of my stomach and wraps its bony fingers around my heart; when it squeezes, my entire reality skip a beat.

Sometimes when I am teetering on the cusp of sleep I fantasize about what it would be like if she was still here, and I always wind up rolling the same question over and over in my mind…would it be the same as it was before?

I don’t usually let myself go there, but sometimes I close my eyes, fold in to myself and imagine what it would be like to still have a Mum. What it would be like to call her, to hear her voice; to feel her arms wrapped around me and to see her form a bond with my children. Her grandchildren.

Sometimes I wish she were here so badly that it feels like my chest might explode from the ache; other times I’m relieved that she’s not, that it’s not the same as it was before. The shaking guilt that comes with that relief nearly swallows me whole.

Most of all, I wish that I could see her once more. For five minutes, just enough time to hold her in my arms, bury my head in her neck and breathe in her smell, the smell I miss so much. Just enough time to tell her that I get it, now that I’m a mother myself…oh God, do I get it.

Seven years. Sometimes it feels like an eternity, but right now it feels like it was just yesterday that she slipped away.

Posted in life, in general, my mama at 9:28 am by mamatulip

Tagged: grief, loss, love

Permalink 18 Comments

06.26.09

From the mouths of babes…

Sometimes, the things that waft out of my kids’ mouths stop me dead in my tracks:

“Mummy, where’s your pen!s?”

“Why are you putting that big white band-aid on your underwear?”

“How does the baby get inside the Mummy’s tummy?”

Oftentimes, I can pull it together quite quickly and fudge my way through an answer. Other times, like if my children are looking directly at me when they ask such questions, I ~~take the coward’s way out~~ cleverly divert their attention:

“Who wants candy?”

“Ice cream for everyone!”

“WOW, look at THAT! Over THERE!”

Yesterday, however, Julia asked me a question that rendered me speechless. She was sitting on the couch reading a book when she looked up at me, cocked her head and said, “Mummy, is Elmo gay?”

I stopped what I was doing and turned to look at her.

“What?” I detected a shrill note in my voice and cleared my throat. “What did you just say?”

“Is Elmo gay?”

Jesus H., I did not sign up for THIS, I thought. I swallowed hard. “Where did you hear that?”

“The older boys on the back of the bus were singing it on the way home today, Elmo is ga-ay, Elmo is ga-ay. Is he?”

Damn you older boys on the bus, I thought. Damn all of you!

I leaned over the kitchen counter and looked down at her. “Do you know what the word gay means, sweetie?”

She nodded her head; I held my breath. “Happy,” she said.

OH, THANK GOD.

“Yes,” I said emphatically, laughing with relief. “Yes, honey, that’s exactly right. Elmo is gay.”

Posted in life with julia, parenting at 7:23 am by mamatulip

Tagged: Elmo, parenting, things overheard, why my hair gets grayer every day

Permalink 21 Comments

06.22.09

Deliciously alive

Last week was a long one.

It was one those weeks that had me weeping on Monday and come Tuesday, wondering if I’d survive the rest of it intact. By Wednesday my face and chest were awash with a rash of teeny, tiny stress-induced pimples, just in time for a close friend’s wedding on Saturday – a wedding that I was slated to co-emcee. And I was all, Oh, THANKS FOR THE ZITS, Universe! How did you know that getting up in front of one hundred and fifteen strangers while closely resembling a pizza with extra pepperoni has been a TOP PRIORITY OF MINE for a while now?

I tried not to sweat it. Instead, I swabbed with witch hazel religiously and invested in a tube of decent cover up, and come Saturday things were looking up. I paid no mind to the big red throbber at the top of my forehead, that no amount of foundation would hide (seriously, the fuckin’ thing was like a beacon in the night), and by the time we’d dropped the kids off at my mother-in-law’s and were on the road, I was feeling pretty good.

Until.

Until the top of our third hour on the road, when my father, who was responsible for taking care of Miss Foxy Brown while we were gone, called to tell us I’d given him the wrong house key.

I could feel my hysteria level shooting to a record-breaking high there in the front seat, so I promptly turned to my husband and ~~shrieked~~ asked him nicely to (fucking) deal with this (fucking) situation. And you know what? He did. He called his brother, and between the two of them they figured out a way for his brother to ~~break~~ get in the house.

And I, in turn, breathed a huge sigh of relief, chilled the fuck out and proceeded to have one hell of a good time. I laughed, I cried; I co-emceed. I gave a speech and I didn’t blubber my way through it; after that I grabbed the mic and started rapping, and I didn’t fall (or get booed off the stage). I sipped champagne, double-fisted Corona’s and danced until my calves tingled. I met new people, embraced old friends; I felt happy - really, really happy. I kicked back, let go of the stress and strain of a very shitty week and completely cut loose (read: I got completely wasted).

And I had a great time doing it.

I woke up the next morning with cotton mouth a slight case of the spins. My hips and feet ached from dancing; partying like I did in college isn’t quite the same now that I’m pushing thirty-two. I slid out of bed, limped my way in to the hotel bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror, all disheveled hair, smeared mascara and puffy, bloodshot eyes. I looked a wreck and I felt like a bag of bones – very old, creaky bones.