Mother’s Day (Again)

You know, Mother’s Day sneaks up on me every single year. I mean, hello. It’s in May. I know it’s in May. But for some reason, I spend more time thinking about how it will be tough to get through my mom’s birthday, Christmas, and the anniversary of her death, that I completely forget about Mother’s Day. And yet, here it is again.

I don’t completely hate Mother’s Day. When everything is normal, I love the little presents the girls bring home from school. I love the little tea parties they used to have for the mothers when I had a girl in preschool. I love the question and answer sheets – how old is your mommy? What does your mommy do while you are in school? What is your mommy’s favorite food?

But I do not love it either. It reminds me that my mother is not here. That she has not been here for a very long time and I feel sad. She’s been gone so long, I almost feel like I need to apologize for STILL being sad, as if each year that she’s gone gives me less of an excuse to feel sad.

Grief is a strange, complicated beast. Just the other day, I was talking to Selah about something and we got talking about her hair. I told her I liked how long it had grown out and asked her if she still wanted to cut it short (that’s what she wanted to do last year). She said yes – that she did want to cut it short. And she wanted bangs. I laughed out loud because when I was a kid, it was super popular to have bangs and I begged my mom for them. She (consulting with our friend who cut my hair) told me no, that I would change my mind right after we cut them and then it would take forever to grow them back out. (In her defense, she was right.) So I told Selah this – you may think you want them, but then if you change your mind, it takes a long time for your hair to grow out and it’s kind of a pain. Selah kept insisting – her friends have bangs, they look really cute – and I agreed with her, but I still didn’t think it was a good idea for Selah because 1. she hates having hair in her face and 2. is my most low-maintenance child. After a few minutes of back and forth, I was still laughing at the whole conversation – it reminded me of my mom so much! – that I had to call our friend who lived through the whole bang thing with us. I was telling her the story and we were laughing and remembering everything my mom had said – and then all of a sudden, I wasn’t laughing anymore. I was crying. I was heartbroken that my mom wasn’t here for all of this. How could she not be here? How could she miss this? These are her grandchildren. She should get to hear them, to see them, to hug them.

So this is how I feel about Mother’s Day. It’s a day where you celebrate mothers. And we should celebrate mothers. But it’s a hard one, for sure. It doesn’t matter how long ago your mother has gone, you will always miss her. You will always feel as though an appendage is missing. You will learn to work around the hurt, the sadness, the grief, but it will still be there.

To my mother, I miss you. I wish you were here on Mother’s Day (or any day, for that matter). Thanks for being my advocate, my cheerleader, my friend. But most of all, thanks for being my mother.

The Real Mother’s Day

You know, I think we put a lot of pressure on ourselves for Mother’s Day. We, as in the mothers, I think. We want the extra good behavior, the picked-out-the-night-before-coordinating clothes, the polished picture, the thoughtful gift. But to our kids (well, at least to MY kids), Mother’s Day is just another day.  What are we going to do today that’s fun? Can we go to the playground?  Can we see our friends?  Can we eat ice cream?  How come there’s no Kid’s Day??

Of course I want to have Mother’s Day. I smile when the tent at Kroger goes up just thinking about the chocolate covered strawberries that Jeff will most likely pick out – even though I’ll tell him not to. I love the homemade gifts my girls make at school and the little questionnaire I knew was coming from Kate.  What’s your mommy’s name?  How old is she?  What is her favorite food? What do you love the most about your mommy?

On Mother’s Day, my kids will still fight.  They’ll probably still cry/whine/complain about something and how it’s not going their way.  They (well one of them more than the others) don’t want to take a picture because the sun is too bright. They’d rather go outside and play than sit in my lap.

So I’ll take my Mother’s Day how I can get it. Which, if you think about it, is every day that I get with my girls. On Monday, when I got each girl her own slushie from Sonic to celebrate Macy’s first day of STAAR testing and Kate accidentally put a hole in the side of hers with her straw and hands it to me while I’m driving and the whole thing is oozing sticky grape Nerd-filled slushie all over my clothes/steering wheel/seat until I have to open up my door and dump the whole thing out, that is Mother’s Day.  It’s Mother’s Day when Kate cries and says, “I wasted it!” and Macy hands her her own slushie and says, “Here you go, Kate. You can have mine.”  That is Mother’s Day. Or when Selah steps on glass two days before her field trip to the science museum and I carry her through the entire butterfly exhibit because her wheelchair can’t do the steps, that is Mother’s Day.  When she giggles because a butterfly lands on her little hand, I thought – this.  This right here is Mother’s Day.

This year, Macy made me a Joy Jar for Mother’s Day. It might be my favorite gift she’s given to me up to this point. It’s a jar filled with “compliments” about her mommy.  I love it when you are there for me when I am scared.  I love when we spend time together.  You are a great mom because you care for me when I am hurt. When you pick me up early from school, you make me happy. When I am upset, you help me calm down.

As I opened each one of these, I was overwhelmed. That my sweet little girl, who was a baby just a minute ago, is able to express herself so well.  That these little things that I do are being noticed.  That she loves me so much.

As I went through my Mother’s Day – with all its bumps and bruises – I tried to think back on all of these compliments.  I tried to hold them in my heart – the way Mary did when Jesus was born.

The truth is, we’re only going to get a few Mother’s Days – the real ones and the in-between ones. My own personal Mother’s Day will never be the same, because I no longer have that person to give a gift to, to spend time with, to tell her how much she means to me. So my hope is for however many Mother’s Days I get is that I won’t over-pressure myself.  That I’ll be able to step back and enjoy it, even when nothing seems to be going to plan. That I’ll get to hold my girls and love on them as much as possible.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you mothers out there.  Your kids are thankful for you.

Complicated

Today I wanted to call my mother and ask her which bedding she liked for the girls.  A friend of a friend is possibly gifting us some bunk beds (let’s all say a prayer for that – my biggest fear is that Macy breaks her arm on the second day) and if we get them, we “need” some twin size bedding for the top bunk. I’m standing in the aisle trying to make a decision and wanted to call my mom.

Mother’s Day and I have a complicated relationship.  On the one hand, my girls are so sweet and they make me cards and they give me gifts and lots of extra hugs. We usually take one picture of the four of us – which may be the only one we get all year.  If I’m feeling extra lucky, I may even get one of me with each girl by ourselves.

But on the other hand, Mother’s Day is a day when everyone else is celebrating their mom.  The social media posts begin, the pictures pop up, and everyone makes plans to take their mom out to eat.  It’s not that I don’t want people to celebrate their moms – they absolutely should – but I start to feel a little sad.  I want to post a picture with my mom, I want to take her out to eat.  I want to have the girls make her cards and buy her gifts and give her lots of extra hugs.

It’s hard for me to realize that most of the people I am friends with now have never even met my mother.  She’s been gone for so long that I actually spend more time with people who  never knew her than I do with people who did.  This is why on Mother’s Day, I wanted to go back to my home church – the place where I grew up, where I believed, where I was baptized, where I was married, where I was commissioned, where my mother’s funeral was held.  It’s always felt like home to me, but without my mother, it feels a little smaller, a little sadder. Most people don’t know me anymore, most people didn’t know her.  But it’s still my church.  And it’s still her church.  And I wanted to go to church with my mother on Mother’s Day.

I sat in the area that she would have sat in. I sat with one of her friends.  I thought of her the entire time and gosh, I missed her more than words can say.  But it was so worth it – because I went to church with my mother on Mother’s Day.

So I guess from now on, Mother’s Day and I will always have a complicated relationship.  I suppose all relationships are complicated anyway.

Happy Mother’s Day.  Tell your mom you love her.  Tell her how much she means to you.  And don’t forget to give her extra hugs on Mother’s Day.

The Last Day

As a kid, I always thought of May as a time of beginnings.  The beginning of freedom, the beginning of summer, the beginning of a new job.

As an adult, May has become the month of endings. My calendar is full of the end of school year stuff – field day, teacher appreciation week, mother’s day tea, last day of school parties.

Yesterday was Selah’s preschool graduation. There’s not much cuter than a whole bunch of five year olds dressed up in cap and gowns.

First we got to listen to the graduates sing –

Then each kiddo got to walk across the stage and receive their diploma –

I can’t say enough good things about Selah’s teachers this year. They have been the most loving, supportive, encouraging and kind women I could have ever asked for. They love my Selah and she loves them right back.

We only had a minute to take a couple of pictures with the graduate.

At this point, the cookie was winning over any more pictures. Can’t say that I blame her.

You would have thought that all this pomp and circumstance would have had this momma falling apart, but I really did okay through the whole thing. Even through the slide show of baby pictures, I made it without a tear.  I thought I was home free.

That is, until this morning, when it was time for drop off.

Here I am, pulling up in the car line outside the girls’ school, and it suddenly hit me.

This is the last time I will ever drop Selah off as a student here.

When Selah first started at Foundry, she was two years old. My mother had only been gone a year and they only had one spot left in the Turning Threes class.  I didn’t know anyone there except the director who gave us a tour of the building and showed us where her classroom would be.

For the first two weeks of school, I brought her inside to her classroom.  After those two weeks, you had the option of doing drop offs from your car if your teacher thought your child would be okay.  Selah’s teacher approved right away and from that day on, she’s been getting out of my car to go into school without looking back.

That was THREE years ago.

I love her school, her teachers, the staff and the parents.  I love how much they love the kids.  And gosh, I love my Selah.

With Macy – as I’m sure most moms are with their firstborn – you can’t wait for them to get to the  next milestone.  First food, first step, first big kid bed, first day of school.

But with your second, wow. You just want time to slow down a bit.  Let me savor that first step just a little bit longer.  Let me keep you in your crib just a little bit longer.  Let me hold you like a baby.  Just a little bit longer.

And that is how I feel today.

Let me keep you here in preschool just a little bit longer.  You are safe here, you are encouraged here, you are loved here.  Let me keep you in the place where school is only a few days a week and I get the extra time to play with you and hug on you and hear your songs.  Let me keep you this age just a little bit longer.

So this morning as I pulled up into the car line, I pulled Selah into my lap and hugged on her so tightly.  I kissed her head and told her – this is my last time to drop you off at your school.

She smiled at me and said, “Today’s the last day Ms. Sandy’s going to open my gummies for me.  She’s going to be sad too.”

Thank you Selah for making me laugh through my tears.  I may be sad you are growing up, but I am so proud of you for who you are becoming.  I love you more than words can say.

To all you moms out there in the same boat as me, happy last day of preschool.

Four Years Ago

It’s just like they always say – the days are long, but the years are short. I’ve had a lot of long days, but when I look back, I can’t really figure out how four years have gone by since I’ve seen my mother.

For her funeral, I wrote something for her that was read aloud during the service. Four years later, it still rings true.

 

I cannot find my tennis shoes.  I’ve been looking for them for a couple of days now – in closets, in the laundry room, underneath the piano.  It seems my mother has put them in a safe place and didn’t mention it to me.

That’s the way she is – my mother.  Cleaning up, picking up, organizing.  She bought folders for paperwork, kept stamps in a special container, put the extra boxes of Kleenex in a cabinet downstairs.  Everything had a place.  Everything.

And she was the only one who knew where everything was.

Even in college, I can remember calling her to ask her where something was.  And she knew.  She had put it away so it wouldn’t get lost.

My mother.

My mother was my anchor.  My mother was my compass.  If she was upset, I was upset.  If she was worried, I was worried.  If she was elated, it rubbed off on me.

My mother traveled miles and miles and hours and hours to be with me.  She held my babies when they were first born. She brought me everything I could have ever wanted and more.

I had just shy of 29 years with my mother and it was not enough time.  I’m not sure that 100 years with my mother would have been enough, but 29 was most certainly not.  But I am beyond grateful for the time that I did have – for the time that we talked on the phone – every single day – for the times that we spent face to face, and for the time that she had with my girls.

I will miss my mother.

A Birthday without Presents

Dear Mom,

For your birthday, Dad bought me a minivan. Ok, ok – it wasn’t really for your birthday.  He’s been talking about it for a long time now – the doors, the captain’s chairs, the space that it would give me for the girls – but I really haven’t been interested.

I love the car I’ve got now, mostly because it reminds me of you.  I’m not even sure you drove it more than once or twice, but we bought it the day after we came back to the US to be with you because we could no longer fit into a regular sized car.  I remember the morning Jeff and I went car looking and took Macy with us and you kept Selah for me.  She was so little then and I remember you telling me how much you enjoyed your time with her.  I remember the first time I drove it and how strange it was to be up so high.  I was so nervous just being out of the road; I felt like I was driving a school bus. I remember sitting in the middle between the two girls and Jeff crawling in and out of the back (which is pretty funny all by itself) so that you could sit in the front and not get carsick.   I remember us going to dinner in it, and running errands, and how happy I was to be back home with you.  How could I give this car up when so much of it reminds me of you?

But this is not how life works.  If there’s a lesson I’ve learned over and over again, you can’t hold on to something just because of the memories it has for you.  Sometimes practicality has to set it – or just plain necessity – and in this case, it felt like all the momentum was moving toward a new car for me.

As you probably already know, I’ve never been a fan of minivans.  For one thing, we never had one.  When you’ve only got one kid, you don’t really need a minivan and so I didn’t have much experience with one.

But when we went and looked at them, the door thing was pretty awesome and the optional captain’s chairs really won me over.  All the girls cared about was the DVD player.  All I cared about were the wireless headphones that would allow them to watch the DVD without me having to hear it. And before I knew it, we were going back to look again, and then Dad was going back to buy it.  I’m still in a little bit of shock that it’s ours and I haven’t let the girls eat it in yet, but I think it’s going to be okay.  If there’s one thing you really liked, it was updating – the house, the cars, the wardrobe.  So maybe I’ll just pretend that you helped me pick it out.  You would like it, I think.  There’s more room for everybody and no one has to crawl in and out of the back seat.

The other day, Selah was telling me that it’s almost her birthday.  First Grandma’s birthday, then hers.  You’re right, I said, but don’t forget about Mama’s.  Hers comes a few days before Grandma’s.

“But Mommy,” she asked me, “she’s not here.  How can she get any presents for her birthday?”

In that moment, I didn’t really know what to say.  You’re not here.  We can’t get you any presents.  Honestly, I never knew what to get you when you were here.

Grief is a lot like the waves in the ocean.  Sometimes they are small and manageable waves, and other days you don’t let your kids go in the water for fear the waves will sweep them under.  There will always be days, moments, times when it feels as though my grief is something I can manage and others when I fear it will sweep me under its power. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays – they’ll always be a bit harder because you’re not in them anymore.

But as I drive this new minivan (and try to come up with something else to call it), I’ll think of you.  You would love to see me with three girls.  You’d probably laugh to yourself as you watched them run around and play and drive me – and each other – crazy.

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.

Love,

Amy

Summer

Over the summer I learned two very important things:

1. Summer with three kids at home is like running a three ring circus.
2. Blogs do not write themselves.

This second learning point is unfortunate because of course while I am living my summer with my three kids, I am writing things in my head – trying to remember exactly what their faces look like as they run through their favorite splash pad, bottling up the sounds they make when they are giggling with their friends, and soaking in the still and quiet of the house after they’ve all crashed way, way past their bedtime.  That is summer at its best.

But these thoughts do not directly transfer themselves onto this blog, and the whole point of this thing is to keep up with the memories that we are making, and so here I am – in September (no judgement, please) FINALLY trying to get them down on paper.

During May and June, we joined the swim team again.  I had told myself we weren’t going to do it – that there was just too much going on at the end of the school year, but I caved big time when both girls begged for swimming.  I caved even more when the coaches figured out Macy was too old for guppy school and that meant we stayed at the pool for an hour – 30 minutes of 6 and under swim for Macy, where she proved that she could swim the length of the pool, and then 30 minutes of guppy school for Selah.  Kate did surprisingly well with being the only kiddo not to get in the water and helped cheer the girls on as they practiced.  We did not do any meets this year, because my sanity is already hanging by a thread, but the girls loved every minute of it.  Selah has already started asking when she can go back.

June also saw Macy getting her first gymnast of the week  –

and Father’s Day…

At the end of June, Jeff and the girls decided to make their very own butterfly garden in the backyard.  This involved lots of trips to the garden stores –

plus a little dirt and popsicles.

We also stayed busy with VBS and summer day camp for the big girls.

We sang Submerged until we could sing it no longer.

On July 4th weekend, we got to celebrate with baby Ryker and his first trip to Texas. First the corn shucking, then the baby holding.

It was super special for my girls to be holding Aunt Kasie and Uncle JB’s baby boy. So many snuggles. Mixed in with some fireworks, of course. 😊

Summer was also full of so many play dates. I’m talking a lot of play dates.

And a lot of movie nights.

Throw in some swimming and splash pads and I think I’m just about done with July and August.

Whew. Feels like bedtime to me. 😴

Three Girls

Let me be the first to say that I’m not perfect.  I get frustrated (sometimes super-frustrated), I get impatient, I get discouraged.  There are times that three kids feels like twenty – all those shoes to get on, all that stuff to carry, all of the crying and fighting and hurt feelings.  Sometimes (ok, ok, A LOT of times) I have to remind myself that all of this is just a phase, just a moment – one day they will all sleep through the night, go to the bathroom by themselves, and stop sitting in my lap and I will feel sad that the toddler/preschool years are over.

But today was Mother’s Day.  I tried not to focus on the ways they drive me crazy, but instead focused on how much I LOVE them.  How much I can’t imagine my life without them.  I couldn’t understand how my mother could give up so much for me – she’d give me her last bite of dessert, her last five bucks, her jacket if I was cold – until I became a mother.  My girls bring me so much joy and encouragement and love that I could write and write and write about it until I could write no more – and I would have barely scratched the surface of my love for them.

I love that our little family has three girls in it.  I love the pink, the dresses, the way they love and protect each other.  I love the way people’s eyes get when they see me walk in somewhere with one, two, THREE girls.  I laugh every time someone asks me if we will try again for a boy.  God has given us exactly what He wanted us to have and we are beyond blessed.  I often think about my mother and how she came from a family of three girls.  She would have thought we were crazy for having a third kid, but she would have LOVED all of them so, so much.

I love you Macy Kailyn, Selah Madeline and Kate Lauren.  I thank God every day that He let me be your mommy.

Mother’s Day

Dear Mom,

Mother’s Day really snuck up on me this year.  My calendar has been so full with teacher appreciation week, swim practice, soccer, homework, and spelling words that I somehow forgot about it.

But today, I made a simple phone call to Jeanette to ask her where she was going to church for Mother’s Day and my voice cracked on the words “Mother’s day”. Out of nowhere, I was devastated and unable to hold back my tears as I drove down the freeway.  I quickly got off the phone and started to cry.  Another Mother’s Day was coming.  Another day that I would be forced to celebrate without you.

I’ve grieved selfishly over these past years that my holidays will never look the same.  They were so much you – your presence is ingrained in every single Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthday.  I grieve that my girls won’t remember sharing them with you.

But I didn’t feel that Mother’s Day had been particularly difficult since you’ve been gone.  Maybe because I’ve tried to focus on my girls and whatever activities we’ve got going on that Sunday.  But for some reason, this year feels different and my heart is already heavy.  Photos of friends with their moms are starting to pop up on social media and the girls are coming home with their Mother’s Day gifts. The way I miss you is so real I can almost reach out and touch it.

There are so many things I want to share with you, tell you about, ask your advice.  I’ve looked high and low for women to fill that void that you’ve left, but to no avail.   Just about every minute of every hour, I wish I could pick up the phone and call you. I have so many questions – about family, about motherhood, about tough decisions – that I just want someone to talk to and I want you.  Your mother is the one who will listen to you talk and talk about your kids, your life, your troubles and will never interrupt, or complain, or wish they were talking about themselves. I long for you, for your wisdom, for your encouragement.

If you were here, I’m not sure exactly what I would say.  I love you, I miss you, and thank you don’t quite seem to do my feelings justice, but I suppose I would start there.  I would ask you more questions and listen more.  As a mother, so much of the time we doubt and we worry, and we just want someone to spur us on, to help us where we fail and encourage us in our strengths. You were always that person for me.

So, on this day, my fourth Mother’s Day without you, I wanted to let you know that I still think about you, every day and every hour.  I hear your voice in my head, I hear it come out when I talk to my girls.  I carry you with me wherever I go.

I love you, Mom.  Happy Mother’s Day.

Love,

Amy

 

The Whirlwind and the Quiet

Recently I heard about a friend who has lost a parent.  Immediately, my heart was broken – for her, for her family, for the other parent.  I thought about reaching out to her, but I knew that words would fall short of what I was trying to say.  Words always seem to fail us at the times we need them most.

But here is what I said in my head.

I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  It’s not fair.  There will be a hole in your heart for the rest of your life and while it will never go away or get smaller, you will adapt and learn how to survive with it still there.

These next few days will be the whirlwind.  Your phone will blow up with messages, your Facebook feed will bring tears to your eyes.  People will literally come out of the woodwork and want to be with you – to bring their condolences, to cook you meals, to play with your kids.  You will feel numb and exhausted.  You will want them all to leave while wanting them all to stay.

There’s so much to do.  The obituary must be written, friends must be notified, the funeral must be planned.  What songs do you want?  Who do you want to speak? What kind of program do you want?  Which casket? Flowers? Bible verses?  What clothes do you want your parent to wear?  Don’t forget shoes.

You’ll be so busy making decisions, answering the phone, and taking care of your kids that it will almost feel like you don’t have time to grieve.  But at night, when you’re putting your kids in bed and it’s dark, you may sob.  Silently, so your kids can’t hear you, but with great big tears that the pillow is wet and your face is splotchy.  It may feel as though an anvil is sitting on your chest and you’ll wonder how on earth you will get up in the morning and do it all again.

This may feel like the hardest part of the process, but I’m not sure it really is.  You’re surrounded by people, your refrigerator is full of casseroles, and you are just putting one foot in front of the other.  It is hard.  But it may get harder.

When the extended family goes home, the people stop coming, and the meals slowly get eaten, you’ll still be grieving.  And the quiet will come.  You’ll have more time to think and it will feel unfair – and you might want to ask how the world could keep on turning without your parent.  Your child may reach a new milestone – complete a project, take a first step, have a birthday – and you’ll feel joy and sadness in a way that you never thought possible.  How can you be so happy for your child and so sad that your parent isn’t around to see it?  I don’t know, but it happened to me.

And then time will continue to pass.  The school year will finish, seasons will change, holidays will come and go.  You’ll have to live through all those difficult “firsts” – the first birthday without your parent, the first Easter, the first Christmas.  People may not ask as much how you are doing, they may seem to have moved on.  It will feel like you’re not allowed to feel sad anymore, like it’s been enough time for you to have moved on as well.

This is, of course, completely untrue.

These have been some of my hardest moments.  I’ve felt (albeit wrongly) that I’m the only one still sad, the only one still suffering.  It makes you feel incredibly lonely and jealous – of those who still have two parents, of those who seem to be happy, of those who seem to have it easier than you.

This is the time to lean on those who really and truly want to be there for you.  They haven’t forgotten, they want to listen, they know that you are sad and they understand.  When you find these relationships, hold onto them tightly, because they are few and far between.  They will remember the anniversary of your parent’s death, they will call.

This is also the time to pour your heart out to the Lord.  Open your Bible, read it slowly, savor the words.  Tell Him how you’re feeling – lost, lonely, anxious, sad.  I come back to certain Psalms over and over again and find comfort every time.

Today is the third anniversary of my mother’s death.  I keep thinking that on this day three years ago, I woke up and had a mother.  And then I went to sleep that night without one.

I’ve thought about the phone call I got that morning from my aunt, telling me to get dressed and come up there as soon as I could.  I think about my other aunt driving in from out of town and making it right before we lost my mother.  I think about the way she looked, the way she breathed, the way it felt to take off her wedding ring.  I tell you all of this not to depress you, or make you feel sorry for me, but to say – it has been three years and I am still sad.  There is no timeline for grief, no logic.  I have ups and downs, joy and sadness. But the Lord is my constant.  He gives me new mercies every morning.  His steadfast love never ceases.

There is grief in the whirlwind and in the quiet.  I just wanted you to know that.  I am sorry for your loss.  I wish you didn’t have to go through it.  But the Lord will walk with you, He will carry you when you can walk no longer.  And those people that He brings into your life, while they will never replace your parent – they will remind you how to breathe, how to love, how to feel joy once again.