The wind up to Mother’s Day has proven more of a bite than the actual bark of the day. The card racks feel like they burst to overflowing with their flower bedecked fare screaming, “you don’t have one, but we do!” — earlier and early year over year. Suddenly the streets seem to fill with every mother daughter in all of Manhattan, living their best, and very alive lives.
I have been riding with motherloss side-saddle since ‘93. My Mom Ellen died suddenly at 50, when and I was 27. If you do the griefmath that is three decades Momless.
She died in the summertime, and I had a whole year-ish until my first Motherless Mother’s Day hit. Grief besotted, I just skipped it. Pulled the damn covers over my head and waited till the sun rose on Monday. I kept reminding myself, “it’s just a day”. Other years I have split the day—hours for me in the am, and some kind of everyone else gathering in the pm. I can never know how it may hit, or not. So I make the best of plans with permission to break ‘em. I tell clients to do the same. Sometimes, just having the plan takes the air out of the proverbial anxiety bubble!
AN UNMOTHERED MOTHER’S DAY
Make plans that brings you joy.
(Give yourself permission to change up or flat out cancel said plan.)
Take a walk, a hike, a nap, a break.
Buy her a card. Yup, fill her in on all the good stuff.
Write yourself a love note. You deserve it.
Wear her favorite color, jewelry, perfume, purse…you get the idea.
Eat her favorite food. Eat yours.
Light a memorial candle. Say a little prayer.
Make a moody playlist.
Listen to her favorite music.
Cry, scream, dance!
Celebrate yourself. Be proud. (Nobody but you really knows just how hard this is!)
I miss her like hell this year. For the first time in decades I made my way to visit her graveside on the way home from a book talk in NJ. Her stone was covered in a confetti of cherry blossoms. It was raining and I wiped the face of the stone with my hand, caressing the smooth grey granite to expose the engraving.
Beloved Mommy. I’d all but forgotten it said that.
She told me and my sister as kids that she never really believed our Grandma was at the cemetery. At least not in a way that helped Mom to remember her. She taught us to honor our Grandma Basch in ways like getting her favorite iced cream with colored sprinkles, monogramming a beach towel with a signature script, or by wearing a bright red lip!
As per use, the train toots its whistle when I make it to her plot. It makes me think she is saying, “scoot, you know I am not here.” I cried and giggled. Took in the pink covered ground, then I headed straight for The Windmill, to treat myself to Mom’s favorite crinkle fries. I douse them in copious amounts of ketchup and rode home with them in the front seat.
I hope you find your way to a peace full Mother’s Day — whoever and however you celebrate. Or don’t.
Sending love, x. b
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