“It’s real now,” I told my sister.
“We have a long haul ahead of us, with our kids, without her,” she told me back.
We sighed through the phone.
Our mom lost her formidable fight with cancer in late 2017. Our first Mother’s Day without her (last year) was weird. This year feels weirder. You’d think we’d get it by now. I mean, we do get it … but it’s still so foreign. And sad. And also very confusing. We miss her. Her darling four granddaughters miss her. We reminisce about her frequently – sometimes with tears, sometimes with laughs.
My mom and I had what I like to call a near-perfect blend of parent/child bond and honest female friendship. Depending on whether I was in my hometown or if she made a trip to Southern California, we’d celebrate Mother’s Day in varied ways that fit our schedule and whereabouts every year. One year it was a trip to Vegas with my sister, another year it was a phone call from 240 miles away. The actual holiday was never a big deal for us, because every day honored our relationshio and Mother’s Day was just another day.
But now, Mother’s Day means something much, much more.
Last year, I vowed to get ahead of whatever torrential storm was coming to wash me away into an emotional abyss — you know, when I’d see all my friends posting pictures with their moms on Facebook. I hunkered down and prepared for an inevitable tidal wave – a presumably devastating incident that would surely crash down on me hard. Be strong, I brainwashed myself.
So what did I do? I invited 18 family members to my home and hosted what would be a beautiful homemade Mother’s Day lunch complete with my wedding crystal and a decadently-decorated cheesecake with a zillion fresh hot pink roses I’d pluck from my own garden.
I would not allow my first Mother’s Day without my mom to own me — I’d own it.
Some of my friends tried to convince me to opt out of hosting what might be a traumatic day. My own brain tempted me to curse the week leading up to it, but my broken heart wouldn’t let me.
My mom wouldn’t let me. “You can handle it,” she’d always say.
So in the name of positive coping, I hosted Mother’s Day with an inexplicable gratitude that I’m convinced was God’s grace holding my hand. I would not allow my first Mother’s Day without my mom to own me — I’d own it.
I whipped up a few of my favorite dishes (her recipes). I served everything on fancy peach plates (her tableware I’d always admired). I dressed my daughters in matching dresses (her fashion trademark). If she couldn’t be with us anymore, then I’d replicate some of her special, home-entertaining touches she was famous for when she was here.
It was a gorgeous and delicious day. I cried in my bathroom after everyone went home but I also found myself embracing a wounded, fresh perspective about what it means to really honor our moms — even after they’re gone.
For me, Mother’s Day has now become a deeper, more focused time to honor and demonstrate who my mom raised me to be, even though she has moved on.
Don't stop honoring Mom, even if she is no longer here — do it for our kids, for ourselves and for our departed lifelines who brought us into this world who are still right beside us in spirit. They continue to live through everything we do and how we do it.
Mother’s Day now moves me to prove to my daughters that real love truly does live forever, and I’ll be damned to miss a chance of a lifetime like that.
Don't you miss it either.
