Mom Mots and Pop-Up Toasters

A morning or two after my mother died, I wrote out a remarkably lengthy list of all that she was right about over the course of her lifetime: your husband won’t change fundamentally after marriage, strawberries aren’t sweet until May, Rudy Giuliani is an asshole and always was (her belief in 2011 when she died, long before his current infamy), always pay off credit card bills monthly, snap the asparagus tips instead of cutting, etc. etc. etc. Momma was both a wise and insightful woman. A full-time worker from the age of 16, she started college in her 40s after I was born (her third child) and eventually became a professor — of computer science. I frequently accompanied her on shopping trips where, in her 80’s, tech salespeople would mistakenly assume I was the customer. I would simply point to her as she explained in precise computing jargon what she needed while they would stand agape, both surprised and delighted by how completely she upset their expectations.

After momma died, well-meaning friends and extended family said all the kind words, about what a full and rich life she had; how we needed to celebrate her accomplishments and legacy; how she would want us to to move on because this was ‘the circle of life.’ But for me and my father and sisters during those horrible days after we lost her, it was as if the sun had disappeared permanently from the sky, and yet people were paradoxically telling us that all would be fine. I did in time, of course, learn how to live in that bleak new world, but momma’s absence still looms large in my life, a huge crater that I must navigate regularly. How would she advise me on this or that problem? Would she be proud of my choices and actions? I ache regularly over the loss of her joyful company — I cannot show her my gardens, enjoy a Costco pizza lunch with her (a favorite), hear her all-body-consuming laughter (her wheezing, we all called it), share my joy (and experience hers) over my son’s accomplishments, listen to her heartfelt toasts during holiday meals (we called her our pop-up toaster), or turn to her for comfort after the death of a beloved pet and other great sadnesses (the touch of her delicate hand stroking my head was a balm for dozens of such pains throughout my life). When I see mothers and daughters out and about together, a combination of sadness, jealousy, and anger still surges through me. After 12 years without her, such feelings have softened at the edges but never entirely dissipated and probably never will.

My mother shaped nearly every inch of who I am, whether she intended to or not. It’s not possible for me to move on from the universe altering event that was her death. I live inside my loss, a second skin that I can never shed. Despite the daily conscious pain of losing momma, I am also always aware of how enormously lucky I was (and still am) to have had her as a parent for as long as I did. The ache I feel is not perfunctory; its very tangible nature demonstrates what a remarkable woman and mother she was. My pain is also instructive, reminding me to live up to the model she provided. I don’t think there can be any more successful parenting than that which is strong and loving enough to continue even after death.