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.