But this post isn't about the sadness or the loss I am feeling. Today I am gaining perspective. As I am in the midst of this relatively new journey into motherhood, I find that I make comparisons between my mom and me, her style as opposed to mine. She raised us in a different time, a different place within, some might argue, a different culture. Where I spent the bulk of my childhood in one house, Maya has already lived in three houses in her three and a half years. While I lived in a neighborhood where we could ride bikes down the road or into town without adult supervision, my girls aren't allowed in the back yard without my being there. A different world. Whereas the cultural diversity of my surroundings was about as white bread as they come, my girls have friends of many colors, myriad homelands and speak numerous languages.
Despite the differences, however, I find that there is wisdom in the way my mom "mothered". There are powerful nuggets of brilliance that I can use in my own mothering now. See, looking back, I have no recollection if my mom wore makeup or styled her hair when I was a kid. I have very few memories of the clothes she wore or if she was fashionable. Sure, as an adult I can make judgments about what she looked like as an older woman, but when she was in the thick of caring for me as a kid, these things didn't matter to me. I don't remember her ever worrying about how manicured her nails were or if her toe nails were polished. And oddly enough, as attuned to scents as I am, I cannot for the world remember what she smelled like, unless it was just bar soap and Mama.
What I do remember is that she read bible stories with character voices that would rival any stage actor. She sang silly songs with me that are seared into my memory so that when I hold my baby girls on my lap these same songs pour out of me word for word. Instant recall. She must not have minded my getting dirty either, because I clearly remember making and serving mud pies from the front ditch. She let me run outside without shoes because I remember getting stickers in the bottom of my feet on a regular basis. My mom loved flowers, plants and gardens so much that she let me pick out seeds to water in order that I could see them grow. And she would hold me tight, snuggled up in a simple quilt watching a lightning storm cross the Wyoming sky. She would whisper, "Isn't it beautiful?!"
On days when I am lucky to squeeze in a shower and my hair is still wet at the end of the day because it's been up in a messy bun all day, or when I catch a glimpse of my makeup-free face, maybe I need to put aside the judgment. When my underwear don't match my outfit because I just grabbed my clothes in my haste to snuggle with my still-warm cherub, I need to realize what is important in this moment. And when I am sad that I can't afford that new cute pair of jeans because we have chosen for me to stay at home with the girls instead of my working full-time, maybe, just maybe I should be grateful that I am the one Maya comes to for "mama magic" to soothe her ouchies. And I am the one that Kyra's eyes light up for when I enter the room.
I sure do miss you, Mama. I miss sharing the details of my life with you, the simple things that no one else really cares about. I miss your easy laughter and your straightforward manner. I miss the expectation of kindness and the air of unconditional love you carried. But I will share these things with my girls as I learn to mother them. And I will gather them up onto my lap during a lightning storm as it crosses this Pennsylvania sky and whisper, "Isn't it beautiful?!"
