Down The Rabbit Hole

Yesterday was a good day. Today will be too. I was the first one up this morning. I was up early to get Lily going for her opening shift at the golf course. Good thing too because when I entered her cave, three alarms were sounding and she was a bear in hibernation. I don't blame her. I think I could sleep through anything in her dark room...in her comfy bed. I'm just happy that she has a job she likes. If that means I have to get up a wee bit earlier than I might like on my Saturday morning, I can live with it. I'm forever wishing for more hours in the day. It dawns on me that all I have to do is get up earlier.

I didn't have a particularly restful night of sleep. I had to rescue my daughter and resuscitate my drowned cat. I heard voices at one point and at another I was sure someone was shining a light in my face. I didn't wake Mike or go on my own to investigate. I simply turned over certain that everyone was home safe and the doors were locked tight. It's not lost on me that this won't be the case for very much longer. And here I go.

Here I go missing days I'm still living. Nostalgia is such a bittersweet emotion. The sentimentality is beautiful. The wistfulness frustrating. To be a mother, is to live with an open heart. Open hearts make us vulnerable and prone. We feel all the feels. It's the best way to do life, but it's also emotionally taxing. If we don't live our lives with hearts wide open, we miss so much. That's no way to live.

I was going through old photos again, which is doing little for my excessive schmaltz these days. I'm trying to whittle it down for photo collages, but I keep adding instead of taking away. I have so many favorites of Teddy. I ended up in a file that was filled with the pictures of my mom's last days. There is one picture of her bald and bloated in her living room. Teddy and Lily are in her hospital bed with her on either side. I could barely look at that photo knowing it was the last of the three of them. The kids are smiling. Unafraid. Innocent. They know nothing yet of loss or impermanence. Their young lives have been filled with the blessings of tenderness and constancy. My mom's eyes are sad, distant, stoical. She knows all too much about life's economy and all the ways that it can be brutally harsh. They are in the season of firsts. She's been living a year of lasts. Almost to the very day. It still breaks my heart ten years later.
   
 When we accepted that my mom was terminal, I asked her to spend some time writing letters for the kids to be given on milestone occasions. She managed to address a slew of envelopes and write a single letter. It was to Teddy for his 16th birthday. I don't know where it is and I didn't give it to him. I read it shortly after my mom died and I realized how flat the sentiment was. It makes sense too...she couldn't write a personal letter to a young man she didn't know. I have a great deal of guilt for asking her to do this. I can only imagine that watching the stack of envelopes grow was one of the most visceral signs of what she was going to miss. It was selfish and insensitive on my part. I still ask her for forgiveness.

The thing is I know what my mom would say to Teddy upon his graduation with honors from high school. I know what she would say to Lily as she leaves for her first prom. I know what she would say at their weddings. She wouldn't say anything curated or lofty. She would just be there. She would show up looking snappy with a smile on her beautiful face. She wouldn't miss a single thing. 

She missed so damn much.

It's why I chronicle everything here. So that come the day I'm on my deathbed (and come it will), I never have to wonder if my kids know just how fiercely I love them and how being their mom is the best part of  living my life. This blog is one long love letter to my family.