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Category Archives: Mother’s Day

generations by gilad

My mother passed away a year ago, two weeks before Mother’s Day. This year the Mother’s Day ads started early and I had a whole month to mourn the lack of someone to shop for or search for the perfect card. However, the truth is that it has been an acknowledgement and reminiscence of all that has transpired each day since.

Memories float to the surface among my tears like blurry Monet images of life. There is no “new normal” as people told me because nothing feels normal. Someone was offended because I called 30 year olds “kids.” Regardless of the age, if you have a parent, then you are someone’s child. Even when your mother is 70, she still recalls the memories of pregnancy and birth and those moments that made you one of her kids. She still demands and deserves respect for the status in life and the milestones achieved. Her memories dominate and no day goes by that she is not remembered, good or bad, for who she was as part of my life.

We are forever children trapped in the timelessness of memories, traveling through time to the feeling of adolescent 12 year olds; not yet a teen and not still a child, but not old enough to be on our own. We needed the reassurance of a parent who cared about us and knew where we were and cared that we were fed, cared if we had clean clothes to wear and a clean bed to sleep in. We were expected to do our homework and chores around the house. Big ones help the little ones.

Now, we try to protect each other without our North Star. The guidance and celestial being that connected us all is somewhere out “there” but certainly not here. My siblings and I are more cautious, gentler, and more fragile. Some of us are new grandparents and yet, we have no Mother. Those beautiful babies made us the matriarchs of our individual families, but the Mother of us all cannot see the photos nor answer the phone when one is born to share our news. There is no replacement for the original.

There are piles of emails in my inbox reminding me to think of what Mom really wants and to capture the photos of us together. Reservations have been made to celebrate Mother’s Day and show her how much we care with handmade Belgian waffles. There are no cards for me nor have I achieved that status of special planning. Life has gone on and work continues no matter the day. Hallmark goes on without me and maybe when I am older it will seem that I am a mother worth celebrating. For now, children are still growing and busy with their lives. They have not reached the age where they understand what it means to mother for a lifetime.

Yet, I have reached the stage where I cannot understand why mothers cannot last a lifetime. I knew that there was going to be a passing, there had to be a greeting and a farewell. There would be angels guarding and lighting the way and I am supposed to meet that moment with gratitude that she was not alone. But the only constant is that I miss her and she was my mother and she is no more.

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Thanks for stopping by! It means more than you know.
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balloons in the sky
The Great Balloon Ceremony is what my father dubbed our Mother’s Day 2013 celebration. My mother passed away two weeks ago, before the month of May even began. With heavy hearts, my father told us that we would celebrate my mother with joy ~ as well as balloons and ice cream cake ~ in this world and the next. That is how Mom celebrated every other family brunch in the past and this year would be no exception.

Eighteen members from four generations joined at my parents’ home on Sunday morning. My brother and daughter were Skyped in from New York and Chicago, respectively. Each time we needed to change the scenery, I would hand my Kindle to my nieces and nephews to chat with their cousin electronically. My brother was passed around the room, by iPhone, from one hand to another. His daughters took turns saying hello as well and each got a bird’s eye view of the party room.

The sun was shining with a crisp breeze in the air. Eighteen shiny Mylar balloons, multicolored heart-shapes and ribbons, floated gently in the corner, glinting in the sunlight through the picture window. Finally, it was time to begin the gift to our mother, grandmother and great grandmother as if she were here. She could see us so much more clearly than we could see her, but the level of love was not lessened. We raised our faces and our hearts to the sky as we each took hold of a long colored ribbon. After a bit of singing, rising voices saying Happy Mother’s Day, and silent prayers of love and tearful messages of the heart, it was time to let each of them go. A rainbow of love gliding high.

They rose afloat, up and over, skyward, over treetops and houses, up into the great clear blue sky with only wisps of clouds to keep them company. We each shielded our eyes, looked up into the sun, and wished our respective balloons to go higher and bring our messages and rays of love further than the next. All for Mom, always, on Mother’s Day.

Yes, there were some Charlie Browns in the bunch, balloons wound and drifting among the leafy green tops of the tall trees in the backyard. But, gradually, as we watched, they blew in the breezy skies and freed themselves. I turned away for a moment, and the last one was mysteriously gone.

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Thank you so much for stopping by! It means more than you know.
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anne taintor put my needs last

With Mother’s Day approaching, I am getting so much mail about gifts to buy, how to celebrate, and things to do with Mom. As we are in the transitions with my mother and grandmother, I empathize with others that are unable to celebrate on this day.  Ultimately, through good and bad, no one loves you like your mother.

I come from a long line of very strong women; I have even given birth to a couple.  The stories and memories that we share of our lineage bring smiles, tears, and laughter – especially to others who don’t have to deal with all of the other baggage! But the inventive sense of humor, creativity, and independence that each lived gives us strength when we need it.  It reminds us that they have not really left us, but remain alive in our hearts and minds with each memory.

Men may be the hunters and gatherers, but it is the mothers who cut the crusts off the sandwiches and make sure that everyone has exactly the same number of cookies.  Mothers can spend 12 hours in the warzone with toddlers, but when Dad walks in, he gets all of the attention. Motherhood is not always fair, sometimes fierce, often fractured, but it is an elemental love so deep and strong, that we persevere.

My mother gave each of us the legacy of family through stories, journals and photographs that she has researched, collected and created for us to acknowledge and remember family members that we did not get to meet face-to-face.  She grew up without grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins and therefore worked very hard to make memories, create family occasions, and document them with pictures and souvenirs.  We grew up with developing fluid in our veins. We knew that if it happened, Mom had a photo of it.  We have had more “natural” posed photographs than some, but we knew it was, and still is, done with love.

The oral history that passes from mother to child brings our ancestors to life. It creates memories and journeys to share with our own children. It is a reminder that mothers will do what they have to do in order to care for their families, and others, in a world that does not always stop to notice.

My great grandparents had to move from one country in Europe to another in order to find work and financially support their growing family.  My great grandfather went ahead to seek work, while my great grandmother waited in another country with my grandmother and her brother.  She waited until my great grandfather was settled and he was ready for them to reunite.  Each European country was tied up in its own borders, paperwork and bureaucracy.  It might be necessary to move families, but they did not make it easy and did not want to take in immigrants to swell the ranks of the social services.  My great grandmother did not let one such border crossing officer utilize his power to keep her from entering the country and beginning a new life with her family.  She was told that the paperwork was not cleared and that she could not enter the country. So, like the clever, strong woman that she was, she told her children to sit down and wait at the crossing, with the nice border patrol, while she went to find her husband and clear up any misunderstanding with the necessary documentation. 

My great grandmother was allowed to enter with her family and belongings.

My grandmother was very frugal, as was my grandfather, who carefully measured each portion and calculated every penny of their combined paychecks. In the 1950’s, my grandparents traveled to Europe, by ship, with my mother and her brother to see what was left of the lives that they had been forced to flee.  There simply was not enough disposable income for lavish meals after the expense of the tickets and the limited income they were careful to protect.  Grandma traveled with a large black purse, a seemingly bottomless trapezoid, which opened and closed with a clicking snap.  She carefully planned for their modest needs and traveled with cans of tuna.  At each restaurant where they were able to eat, the bread basket was placed on the table along with the cutlery and linens.  Each time that the waiter turned around, Grandma would swoop the entire contents of the bread basket into her large black purse, and pleasantly request more rolls.  The family dined on tuna sandwiches throughout their journey.

My mother, undaunted by her own strict and occasionally domineering mother, was unfazed at times when she sought independence.  As a teenager living in New York, my mother dreamed of cozy cottages and country climes.  She had seen a wooden rocking chair and wanted to purchase it for her room.  My grandmother felt it was unnecessary and impractical in their modest-sized apartment.  My mother was told that she could not get it. Those are fighting words for my mother.  She purchased that chair and brought it home, remarkably, on the New York subway system.  Through many incarnations, and paint colors, that rocking chair has traveled through several moves across the country and today sits in her home office. 

My mother does things on her own timetable and doesn’t let the seemingly impossible stop her. Where I am punctual, my mother found the concept of time to be more fluid. If we were supposed to be somewhere in five minutes, that was enough time for her to put on nail polish before we headed into the car.

When I was a teenager, my family moved to New Orleans for a number of years. Mom and Dad had to acclimate to the weather, so hot and humid compared to our New England winters, and become accustomed to a brand new way of life.  Both of my parents worked and had to figure out how to maneuver in their new environment while trying to find their way around the city.  In the days before Mapquest, and the difficulty in driving in the city while holding a large paper map, it was necessary to remember the minimum number of routes to arrive at your destination. On one shopping excursion, my mother had missed her turn and did not know another way to get back to the Mall.  As I was a teenager, fresh from driving lessons and my license still warm, I told my mother that the sign said “No Left Turns.”  My mother’s steely reply:  “Wanna Bet?”

How can we turn out any other way than strong, determined, caring, and possessing a wit and absurd sense of humor?

We are teachers, doctors, cooks, and personal shoppers. We are chauffeurs, social planners, bankers, and the butt of jokes.  We are tired, despairing, frustrated, elated and proud. We can be examples or warnings.  We are mental health counselors on call 24 hours a day. But wherever we are, and wherever they are, we are forever Mothers.

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Thank you for stopping by! It means more than you know.
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