Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I’ve been a bit angry lately that you aren’t around. I have questions about your demons. Perhaps it is because the calendar keeps inching me towards the age you were when you left us. And, I cannot help but wonder if I’m destined for the same pathway.

Twenty-eight years without you is a long time. A long time to reflect and grow and embrace the pieces of you that are embedded so deeply in me that sometimes I feel you are here. I do my best to channel those while also being cautious about the challenging sides of you that lives on in me. I think you’d be proud. Right now, I’m dreaming of my next book and attending workshops virtually at an Erma Bombeck Writer’s conference. I didn’t connect the dots at the time, but it really does feel like a full circle moment for me.

I remember you devouring dog eared copies of her books If Life is a bowl of cherries than what I am doing in the pits and the grass is always greener over the septic tank. At the time I was equally confused and amused by the titles and you told me, someday I’d understand.

I now get she was a trailblazer for her time. She captured the insecurities of so many women, while also giving them a voice when nobody wanted to listen to the value of the home and all the glory that comes with it. Like you, she understood the value of messy. I think much of that wisdom has been lost in our new-fangled society of insta-everything perfection.

I want you to know that thanks to you and women like Erma Bombeck, the value of messy is not lost on me. This doesn’t preclude them from being beautiful but rather to find beauty in the mess. The complicated nuances of life that can slowly bring us down are the same things that 20-years from now we’ll look back on fondly.

What I’d give to use a snot-sucker while holding Jake in my arms again. Instead, I’m lucky if I get a two-second hug in a moment of weakness. He recently told me he didn’t need my help in making him oatmeal and I couldn’t help but fast forward to when he didn’t need me at all.

At the same time, I sit here at 46-years old and have never needed you more. What I’d give for one more day. One more mundane conversation about boyfriends, best friends and acne. For one more chance to learn your pancake recipe. Instead, I do my best to hold on the memories and let go of the anger. To think fondly of the years we had versus wat could have been. And, I pray that you and dad are happy.

To the messy.

I love you mom.

Your Baby Girl