Lessons From My Second Mother's Day

First time holding my girl
7-15-12

My dearest Bon Bon,

I can't believe my second Mother's Day with you has come and (almost) gone. It seems that it was just a second ago that we found out we were expecting you. Now, in just two short months, you will be two.

This motherhood thing has certainly been an adventure. We have had our ups and downs. I have had my moments where I shone as a mom and moments where I fell flat on my face. You, my darling girl, have been a blessing from the start... even though I am fairly certain you have only slept for 17 hours total since the day you were born.

These past couple months have been hard. The hardest. I haven't been the mom I should be. There have probably been too many viewings of Frozen and too few books. I have been here, but not always present. And through it all - through the time your sweet Ganma was in the hospital and the week of her funeral, through the trip to Arlington to bury her, your Papa and me packing up my childhood home, and the extra long phone calls to your Aunt Molly, you have been an angel. Always smiling, always hugging, you have been my sunshine when the skies were so gray.

It is crazy how we find history repeating itself. My momma lost her sweet mom when I was only one year old. It was a dark December in 1985. My mom taught me a lot from that - about grief and depression, finding joy through the tears.

It has made me think a lot about other things she has taught me - things I had hoped she would help teach you. She won't have that chance now, but I hope - as she did with me - I can show you ...

1) That grief sucks. It sucks. But it is not your whole life and it won't define you forever. Even in your darkest days - and I hope those are few and far between - there will be moments of joy and laughter. And at the end, you will come out of it changed. It is up to you if that change is positive or negative. It took your Ganma a long time to overcome losing her mom - she would be the first to admit it - and of course I am still struggling with it. But there will be a time when the loss isn't your whole identity - you just have to walk through the valley.

2) That family is forever. Your dad and I will always be here for you - your backbone, your cheerleaders, your moral compass, and your home. Your Ganma was always that for me. Her house was Tara - getting back there was to regroup and refocus. We hope you always feel that way with us. We hope you understand your aunts and uncles are additional parents for you. They love you almost (ALMOST - Aunt Molly) as much as we do. Your cousins were your first siblings and, when you are older and we are gone, will know all the stories of your life from the very beginning. Cherish them. Cherish your time with them.

3) That friends can be surrogate family. Your grandparents moved a lot - all over the world - during your Papa's Army career. Your Ganma made friends wherever she went - women who she bonded with and loved, who loved her kids and whose kids she loved. At the time of her passing, she had established a "sisterhood" of fellow teachers who shared all the joys and pains of life together. They sat by her bedside for hours in the hospital. They held us as we cried and prayed for us daily. And they mourned deeply because they loved your Ganma and the relationship she had built with them. The friendships were a light in her life. In the same way, I have women in my life who I would flounder without - those that have been my friends since the days I wore sandals with socks in good old middle school and those that I have become close to through this whole journey of motherhood. You have more "aunts" than the Dugger grandkids. I hope you always feel their love and one day find your own sisterhood.

Being held by your sweet Ganma in the hospital.

4) That love is unconditional. Here is the truth baby girl: some times your aunt, uncle, and I were jerks growing up. Sometimes we were jerks as adults. Okay, it was mostly your aunt and uncle. I mean, I was pretty perfect. Don't ask them that - but it is true. Regardless, she loved us anyway. She forgave us. And we forgave her. If you are going to love someone, love them. 

5) That you should love your neighbor as you love yourself. Your Papa will teach you the verse just like he taught it to me every Sunday growing up. Your Ganma never recited it to me but I saw her live it every single day. I saw it when she came home weeping over one of her kids at school and the cards they had been dealt in life. I saw it when she left in the middle of the night to comfort a friend in need or to pray by a sick bedside. I saw it when she sent care packages and cards to people she hadn't seen in decades so that they always remembered they had someone in their corner. I saw it in the countless hours she gave to her church, her family, her friends, and her community. I hope you have her heart and eyes for those around you.

6) That if it is after Labor Day or before Easter, you better have stockings on those legs.

7) That it is okay to admit when you are not good at something and ask for help. For your Ganma - this would apply to anything that plugged in or required some sort of Internet connection. Ask your daddy one day about the time she called him because she couldn't figure out how to turn her computer off.

8) That it is okay to take a break. Every semester in high school, your Ganma would let me take one day off of school to float in the pool, watch Days of Our Lives (which will probably have the same storyline when you are 16 as it did when I was), and just escape. Once, when I was pregnant with you, she offered to write a note to my boss - MY BOSS - to let them know I needed a day to get a pedicure and look at baby furniture. I declined, but it was a good reminder that every now in then we all need a me day. I hope you remember.

9) That every day can be magical. Your Ganma tried to make the most ordinary days extraordinary for you and your cousins either through special trips outside to catch fireflies or letting you each get private time reading stories with her. It was rarely something big or flashy - it was just the magic of being with her and being loved by her. I hope you always feel that and make those you love feel that way. Remember each day can be as wonderful and surprising as you want it to be. And, of course, that only boring people are boring.

10) That if you don't know how to cook something, just saute it with Worcester sauce and garlic. Okay, I hope you actually learn a lot more about cooking but that was your Ganma's go to regardless of occasion and meat being used. She would have loved showing you how to mince garlic and explain to you that it is the best ingredient of anything ever.

Most of all, I hope I can show you what kind of mother she was - kind, fun, strong, and fierce - through the kind of mother I hope to be to you. I love you sweet girl. Thanks for making me a Momma.

On my first motherless Mother's Day

I am having trouble wrapping my head around this weekend. Tomorrow will be five months since Momma's death. Sunday will mark our first motherless Mother's Day. 

It is a funny feeling this motherless Mother's Day. Molls and I have so much to celebrate - healthy, wonderful, amazing gifts from God that call us "Mommy." Yet, there will be mourning. There is no sappy but true card to drop in the mail or present to wrap. There is no racing to be the first one to call on Sunday morning or summary wrap up call to be had on Monday. 

It has been five months yet still it seems unbelievable. There is a sense of security that leaves your world when you lose a parent. We are suddenly the matriarchs. We are the mothers. All those Hallmark-esq commercials about mothers kissing skinned knees and holding scared children tight to their breast - they have an impact for a reason. They ring true for billions of people across thousands of years of history. And even as I fell into my own rhythm of motherhood - as B and I developed our own songs and secret language, our own coping mechanisms and I began to feel confident in my ability to be her mom - I still had my mom. I still needed and wanted my mom.  

She was the only person I let stay in the NICU with B so that my broken and tired body could have four hours of rest in an actual bed during our week long stay. She was the first call I made when we had tornado warnings and RB was out of town, even though it was silly and there was nothing she could do but worry and give me ridiculous advice like make sure I went to bed in real clothes in case the house was destroyed. I called her on the way to each play date to tell her what we were doing and (because she would inevitably ask to see if it was something she gave B) what B was wearing. I called her on the way home to report how B liked the activity and whether or not I thought she would nap that day. 

She was my mom. And sometimes that meant we behaved as mothers and daughters do. Cross words were said. Phones possibly slammed. But she was my mom. And we always fell back into our own rhythm. 

Last Mother's Day was so sweet I can almost taste it. I had my sweet girl to celebrate and rejoice in on my first Mother's Day. I had my own sweet momma, just a phone call away, freshly returned to Virginia after a beautiful, perfect trip to Georgia for B's dedication. I had my rhythm as a mother and my rhythm as a daughter.

And now, that rhythm is off. A key player is missing and we are all grasping at how to readjust. For Molls and me, this weekend seems to just scream questions. How are we the only mothers in this little family? How do we face the large milestones and not have her to call? Not have her here to keep being our mom? How do we start to fill those shoes?

We are motherless. It doesn't matter how many times I say it or think it, it still catches my breath. We are motherless. 

I am sure some would grimace at that phrase. They would remind us that she is always with us, that she watches over us. And in some ways, they are right. She is here in everyday things - in the way I chop garlic haphazardly and quickly. In the way I fold (or as RB calls it "mangle") fitted sheets. In the way I push my hair back when I am thinking. Or purse my lips when I am trying not to show annoyance. She is with me when I rock B, stroking the curly hair my sweet girl inherited from her grandmother. She is with me when my heart breaks for others and when my West Virginia fighting spirit comes tumbling out unchecked. 

But in many, many, painstakingly hurtful ways they are wrong. She is not here. She is gone and we are motherless. And it is hard. And it is sad. And - as seems to have become the new family motto - it sucks. 

I am thankful, though, for the 29 Mother's Days I had to share with her. For the brunches and cards and stories of how hard it was to deliver me. For the values she instilled in me and the compassion she witnessed to me. For the random trips home from UVA to surprise her. For the never ending, absolutely insane questions about how her computer worked that still have Molls and me howling with laughter. For the reminders of who I was and who was in my corner. For loving me, my husband, and my daughter with every ounce of her being. For teaching me to celebrate the holidays and the every days. 

She always used to tell me that I would never understand how much she loved me until I had my own baby. She was right. She missed something though - I would never understand how much I loved her until I was a mother. Until I heard that mother daughter rhythm from her side. I love you, Momma. Happy Mother's Day.

Pool, please.

Last week was apparently the week of trying all the new things.

Besides our first trip to the Georgia Aquarium (FISHIES!) and our first adventure at Build-A-Bear, we also went to our first soccer practice and had our first library trip.

Seriously? You know
you want to see this on
a soccer field. 

Soccer... well, soccer went about just as well as we expected. The prep for it was even a hassle. My super-Southern husband rolled his eyes at every mention of "the Yankee sport that might as well be lacrosse." I am not sure exactly what that means, but I am fairly confident it is the worst cutdown a South Carolinian can give. He also repeatedly asked for the dates we could sign her up for "real" things like tball (2018?) and football (uh, never).

Once past the daddy hurdle, came a whole new obstacle: clothing. Apparently, until I signed up her for soccer, it never occurred to me that B didn't own a single pair of tennis shoes. Or play shorts. Or athletic tshirts. I asked RB (and maybe several friends hoping for a different answer) if she could wear a smocked soccer dress. I promised to buy tennies to go with it. Still, denied. So, we started on the quest for appropriate play clothes. I realize this should be an easy task, but to someone who insisted on wearing a skirt over her soccer uniform in the 3rd grade, it was slightly daunting. Luckily, Macy's had a selection (and free shipping!) and we were now officially ready to start soccer.

The morning we first went was actually the second week of practice. We had missed the first week to be out of town for Easter. I noticed immediately the lack of moms there. I naively assumed this meant they had older kids the moms were hanging out with during the practice. Or the moms were taking a break. Or soccer is the go to activity for divorced dads of North Georgia. It didn't take long for me to realize why the moms were nowhere to be seen.

B and her dad went on the field confidently. She was curious. She was happy. She was ready to play. Then, she happened to glance behind her and realize that we were separated by a mesh fence. Easy enough to overcome, but for a 21 month old it might as well have been the Great Wall of China. Instantly three fields of mini soccer players were serenaded by the high pitch squealing of "MOMMY. MY MOMMY. MY MOMMY." Ohhhhh. So that's why the other moms aren't here...

RB's face was insta-panic and he was frantically beckoning me as it seemed like everyone. on. the. planet. was scanning the bleachers to see where this horrible, not-hanging-out-with-her-kid momma was. I laid down our stuff, abandoned my goal of documenting every millisecond of soccer glory, and joined B on the field.

We thought that would be the instant fix. Instead, we endured 45 minutes of:

 "If that ball touches me, I will burn this
place to. the. ground."

1) Me carrying B, kicking the ball for her in flip flops and a new pedi, totally unprepared because this was supposed to be a daddy daughter activity.
2) B making the coaches believe the only word she knows is "nope."
3) Witnessing 18 month old prodigies run up and down the field, dribbling the ball, scoring a goal at each end. Who are these kids?
4) B making friends with another girl in the class by both seeing who could shriek louder when a ball or coach came near them. She may hate soccer, but that child is definitely competitive. Their audible struggle was finally ended when the other girl finally just clinched onto her dad's leg and refused to let go until he agreed to go to the car. I consider that a win for B.
5) RB totally abandoning me "because she wants to hang out with her mom" and playing 2048 cheering us on from the stands.

Finally, we came to the second to last activity of the day: the bubble stomp. This is basically where the coaches walk around in a circle, blowing bubbles, being followed by 10 - 12 toddlers manically stomping the bubbles/ tripping over one another. If this was all there was to soccer, B would be the next Lionel Messi (and yes, I did have to google "famous soccer players besides Beckham"). The minute she saw that first bubble, she leaped out of my arms for the first time all morning and began to actually participate. She was in heaven. There was stomping. There was music. There were bubbles and bubbles and more bubbles.

I thought this would be the trick to getting her to love soccer; this would be the activity that warmed her up to the whole thing. Negative. The minute the last bubble was popped and a soccer ball peaked its plastic self out of hiding, she was back into my arms playing a never ending game of lava with the soccer field.

We finally wrapped up the exercise in futility practice, and headed home. Everyone was exhausted. RB and I emotionally; B mainly just worn out from throwing herself on the ground and with a sore throat from screaming. We pepped ourselves up, though, and convinced ourselves that next week would be better. She would be more accustomed to it and all would be happiness and sunshine and butterflies.

"You are trying to make me wear a bow and go to soccer?
Clearly, y'all have lost your minds up in here."

This week... we put her in her uniform, threw on those tennis shoes, and immediately heard, "Nope. Pool, please."