Happy Birthday Mom
When someone close to you dies you get used to it. It never stops hurting. For a long time after she died I still picked up the phone to call her on occasion, and assorted things of that nature, but now, heck it's been eight years. I don't forget she's gone. But I still miss her.
Eight years is a long time. I was pregnant with my children eight years ago. They've done a lot of growing since, growing I was unable to share with her.
When we visit my husband's family and they start mentioning how every single little thing my children do is exactly like my husband did at that age, I want to ask my mom, did I do any of that, or are my kids not mine at all? To hear them tell it my kids got everything from my husband and his sister. I have only vague memories of my childhood, so maybe they really aren't anything like me. Though I'm pretty sure, since my husband refers to my son as Little Tara, it's there. I wonder should I be offended that the times hubby refers to son as such is not usually during son's finer moments? Nah, probably not. I can admit my faults. Even laugh at them.
I miss her when my daughter does something oh so like Mom. I miss not being able to tell her said daughter has Mom's hideously gaudy taste in jewelry, shoes, and sometimes clothes. I miss her when I want to remember a funny story that has faded into my storage files. I miss her most, though, when my kids ask why Grammy Sherry died before they could meet her.
But, I am used to it.
Happy birthday Mom. Thanks for passing on to me that undying passion for all things written and your taste in music (and the rock stars that make the music). I hope you've met Jim Morrison and he's as dreamy as you always imagined.
Eight years is a long time. I was pregnant with my children eight years ago. They've done a lot of growing since, growing I was unable to share with her.
When we visit my husband's family and they start mentioning how every single little thing my children do is exactly like my husband did at that age, I want to ask my mom, did I do any of that, or are my kids not mine at all? To hear them tell it my kids got everything from my husband and his sister. I have only vague memories of my childhood, so maybe they really aren't anything like me. Though I'm pretty sure, since my husband refers to my son as Little Tara, it's there. I wonder should I be offended that the times hubby refers to son as such is not usually during son's finer moments? Nah, probably not. I can admit my faults. Even laugh at them.
I miss her when my daughter does something oh so like Mom. I miss not being able to tell her said daughter has Mom's hideously gaudy taste in jewelry, shoes, and sometimes clothes. I miss her when I want to remember a funny story that has faded into my storage files. I miss her most, though, when my kids ask why Grammy Sherry died before they could meet her.
But, I am used to it.
Happy birthday Mom. Thanks for passing on to me that undying passion for all things written and your taste in music (and the rock stars that make the music). I hope you've met Jim Morrison and he's as dreamy as you always imagined.
Comments
And your mother would be so proud of you and your children and what you've become. And don't think for one minute she doesn't see you and your daughter and is probably giggling because she GAVE your daughter her taste in jewelry and clothes. Just to remember her by.
And, you are wrong. She is not giggling, she is downright cackling over it, I assure you ;)