As I write this, I am bawling.
Whenever I get to a big moment in my life, I find myself desperate for ways to include my mama. The original Mama Wama. Most of the time I do it unintentionally, and then realize after that I am doing things directly related to her. Well here I am at the end of pregnancy #3, about to bring my 4th baby into this world, and I am clinging to anything that remotely relates to her beautiful memory. This saga of continued grief and longing for her began earlier this month after an ultrasound to check Bentley’s growth. He is measuring small, and I left the ultrasound with more questions than answers. I felt out of control, and scared. “California Love” by Tupac came on the radio as I hit the highway, and I had a good, long, ugly cry as I belted out her favorite jam. I felt like it was her way of saying relax; sit back and enjoy the music, he’s fine.
This week I was inspired to make a little cheese board for an at home date night with Jim. (Thanks to the best in-laws a girl could ask for!) I was searching for which cheeses to add and came across Harvarti. Instantly I teared up. I put it in my cart, and wheeled back to the produce to grab a pear. Something about my mom was that when she was growing up, she didn’t always know where her next meal was coming from. So as a Mama, she specifically taught us that food is a privilege that not everyone has access to. She also taught us that favorite foods are a delicacy and should be treated with care, respected, and enjoyed thoroughly. A slice of Harvarti on a slice of a nice juicy pear was her favorite. She would make a pear and a block of Harvarti last 4 days, savoring each bite. At the time, I turned my nose up at cheese. She would always ask me if I wanted to enjoy some with her, I would say “gross” and she would say “Mare you don’t know what you’re missing” as she closed her eyes and took another bite. She was right; I didn’t know what I was missing. I am beyond grateful that she and my dad provided a life where we never struggled, or knew the struggle if there was one, of where our next meal was coming from, but so glad she taught us this lesson as I am able to pass on this importance and empathy on to my children.
On the same said date night, I made Jim’s favorite: shepherd’s pie. My mom made the best shepherd’s pie in part due to her making the world’s best mashed potatoes. When she was here physically, I would call her every single time I made mashed potatoes to make sure I was doing it right, and to ask her how long to boil the potatoes. Even when I knew how to make them, she’d still get a call, just to be sure. I put the milk and butter in a container on the stove, just like her, so the milk warms and doesn’t seize the potatoes. Like I said before, I find myself desperate to include her somehow in what I am doing. Desperate to keep her active in my life. Desperate to somehow feel her with me. Desperate for my kiddos to know someone they never got the opportunity to meet. Just. Desperate.
The kicker happened today. I had an NST and packed a bag quickly in case they decided I needed to be induced. I was running around, grabbed the first pair of warm socks I could find and threw them on. Kyla made a comment about it not being Christmas Eve and asked me why I was wearing Christmas socks (complete with eye roll and embarrassed facial expressions). I looked down. I was wearing green joggers with Christmas socks pulled up over them. This was a Marianne staple: seasonally inappropriate sock, pulled over pants, usually wearing her Birkenstocks. It was one of those moments when you realize that you have become your parents. This one made me laugh, mostly because at 4 years old Kyla is already embarrassed of me, and I remember having similar conversations with my Mama about her sock/pant/Birk choices.
What is the point of me writing this stream of consciousness about being desperate for my Mama at this important point in my life? Because I want anyone else struggling with the loss of a loved one to know you are not alone. Even as time passes, and people promised time would make it easier on you, it’s just not always true. There are moments that are just hard without the ones we love. There are moments when nothing makes it easier to live without them. There are moments when you’ve reached a point of desperation that you’re seeking out their favorite cheese just to feel close to them, but in reality it doesn’t really help. You’re still just lost. And that’s ok. That’s an homage to how much love they gave you while they were here. It’s ok to feel that loss fully and completely. Let it hit you like a ton of fucking bricks. Then regroup. As I was writing this I had to take a break and read the book my aunt made for my kiddos about her. I just needed a happy thought, a healing moment. I assume I will continue to feel the weight of this grief as I get closer to this huge life moment. I will continue to acknowledge the waves as they come, and then try to move on with a happy memory. I urge you to do the same, and not stay trapped in the grief. Reach out to a family member or friend and talk about a happy memory. Get some exercise. Do something productive. Write a journal entry (or in my case, a blog post). And know that you aren’t alone.
Note: I had to go back and change this title because I forgot about the post I wrote 4 years ago. When the grief hits, it hits.
