I made salmon patties for dinner tonight, and I told the boys, "My mom used to make these for me when I was little." And Asher looked at me and smiled sweetly and said, "Mine too!"
I try to talk about my mom to them sometimes. When I read them "Never Tease a Weasel," I say, "My mom would read this to me over and over because it was my favorite book." When I pull their shirts over their heads sometimes I say "Skin-a-rabbit! That's what my mom always used to say."
One time Asher asked me, "Who is your mom?" And my heart beat a little faster, and I thought quickly: What do I say?
"My mom's name is Holly. It's been a long time since we've seen her. You probably don't remember."
"Where does she live?"
I decide to be honest: "I don't know."
I call her Holly because she never picked out a name for them to call her. And the last time she saw Asher was when he was ten months old. And the last time I talked to her was three years ago when I called her on my birthday to tell her I was pregnant with Zimrie.
Pregnancy brings a lot of additions for me. (Read: weight gain, indigestion, feeling all the feelings.) But sometimes it draws thick, bold lines around the holes in my heart, bringing them to my attention, calling forth the old grief. The thoughts rise to the surface. Pregnancy can highlight the omissions, too.
The fact that I can't call her, that she's not here to answer questions or listen while I complain and feel bad about complaining. And that she won't come to take care of me and the boys and the new baby. But not just that she won't, that she can't. That we're past that. That she is too far down the road to ever be the mother that I have wished for.
I know in writing this that lots of people will be encouraging and say that I can call them and complain to them and ask them questions. And they are kind. And I will do that. Because my family looks different now. And they are a part of it. But sometimes the grief is still alive. Sometimes the loss of a relationship is still difficult. Sometimes I'm sad that because of sin, in all its many forms, a relationship is dissolved and there is wisdom in lowering our expectations.
But I am grateful that He does not leave us as orphan, that my friends have become a family to me. It helps to know that my boys do have loving grandparents. To know that my mother-in-law wants to be here, even if she can't. That helps. Having a baby without your mom is hard. But having a baby is hard anyway. I'm glad that I don't have to do it alone.
I try to talk about my mom to them sometimes. When I read them "Never Tease a Weasel," I say, "My mom would read this to me over and over because it was my favorite book." When I pull their shirts over their heads sometimes I say "Skin-a-rabbit! That's what my mom always used to say."
One time Asher asked me, "Who is your mom?" And my heart beat a little faster, and I thought quickly: What do I say?
"My mom's name is Holly. It's been a long time since we've seen her. You probably don't remember."
"Where does she live?"
I decide to be honest: "I don't know."
I call her Holly because she never picked out a name for them to call her. And the last time she saw Asher was when he was ten months old. And the last time I talked to her was three years ago when I called her on my birthday to tell her I was pregnant with Zimrie.
Pregnancy brings a lot of additions for me. (Read: weight gain, indigestion, feeling all the feelings.) But sometimes it draws thick, bold lines around the holes in my heart, bringing them to my attention, calling forth the old grief. The thoughts rise to the surface. Pregnancy can highlight the omissions, too.
The fact that I can't call her, that she's not here to answer questions or listen while I complain and feel bad about complaining. And that she won't come to take care of me and the boys and the new baby. But not just that she won't, that she can't. That we're past that. That she is too far down the road to ever be the mother that I have wished for.
I know in writing this that lots of people will be encouraging and say that I can call them and complain to them and ask them questions. And they are kind. And I will do that. Because my family looks different now. And they are a part of it. But sometimes the grief is still alive. Sometimes the loss of a relationship is still difficult. Sometimes I'm sad that because of sin, in all its many forms, a relationship is dissolved and there is wisdom in lowering our expectations.
But I am grateful that He does not leave us as orphan, that my friends have become a family to me. It helps to know that my boys do have loving grandparents. To know that my mother-in-law wants to be here, even if she can't. That helps. Having a baby without your mom is hard. But having a baby is hard anyway. I'm glad that I don't have to do it alone.
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