LG’s project today was making a sheep with cotton balls. After she was done, she turned the paper over and decided to write her name on the back. She can’t write her whole name yet, but she wrote three letters of it. Oddly enough, those three letters happen to spell my mom’s first name. LG and my mom share the same middle name.

Even stranger? I rarely dream about my mom, but I had a dream about her last night. She was about to say something to me, but before she could, I woke up and had goosebumps all over. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Eight years ago today, I lost one of my best friends - my mom. Eight years and the pain has lessened a little, but only a little. I don’t think you ever really get over losing a parent. It’s hard to understand and to accept that one of the people on whom you depended for just about everything for a good chunk of your life is no longer there for you to depend on.

I miss being able to talk to her and laugh with her and pick up the phone and call her five times a day to tell her silly mundane things that no one else would care about, but that she will listen to and react to just like I want her to. I hope that someday I can do that for my daughter. I want her to feel like she can pick up that phone and call me as many times a day as she wants to, to tell me anything - important, poignant, silly, or just to vent. I pray that we have that kind of relationship when she is no longer living under my roof.

I miss all the little things she would do for me - like get me little trinkets or give me money to buy something or send me a card for any and all occasions. And that might sound selfish, but they were expressions of love and I miss those expressions of love very very much.

But more than anything, I am sad that she is not here to share the joy of Little Girl. I know how very much she would have loved her and probably spoiled her rotten. I also know that I have a little piece of my mom with me every day inside of that little girl.

We visit my mom’s grave twice a year - on Mother’s Day and on her birthday. And we talk to LG about her grandma. She sees her picture on the wall and she knows exactly who it is. And she says “the nother Grandma is in my heart”. And so she is. She’s in mine, too.

Last night, we had a speaker at Generations - the gentleman who is doing our Advent Mission and also has his RV parked on our property while he and his family are visiting our parish. (Read on …)

I missed my mom today.

My mom has been gone for 7 1/2 years now. Seems hard to believe really. I miss her every day, but most days it’s in the back of my conscience because I’m busy with Little Girl and with day to day life. But there are moments…

I never know when they are going to happen. I never know what it is that will bring that sadness bubbling up to the top of my memory. Sometimes it’s something huge and sometimes, like today, it’s something small, some mundane little thing that flutters through my mind.

Today as we were driving home from having lunch with my friend T and her 7 month old daughter, I passed a store. I couldn’t see the name of the store and I was trying to remember what it was. I knew it started with an “S” and for some reason the only thing I could think of was Sprouse-Reitz. Anyone remember those old five-and-dime stores?

Well, I do. I remember going there with my mom and spending my birthday or Christmas money when I was a kid. I remember how my mom never could pronounce it quite right with her Texas drawl. I remembered those things and I wished my mom was around to go shopping with me and LG in whatever store that was that I couldn’t remember the name of.

And I missed my mom today.

When I was a child, one of the things I remember most about Christmas was all the goodies my aunts and my mom made to give to each other. I remember my Aunt Ruth always made divinity, but I can’t for the life of me remember anything else that was made…just that I really looked forward to those goodie boxes.

I don’t particularly remember everything my mom made either, but I do remember the potato candy. You might be scratching your head and wondering how on earth you make candy with potatoes, but trust me, you can, and she did, and it was very yummy. I probably could have eaten every piece all by myself, I loved that stuff so much.

The last time I remember her making it for me was around 1997 or 1998 - the year they lived with us for awhile because of health reasons. I remember her sitting at our dining room table (because she wasn’t able to stand for long periods of time anymore) and making that candy for me because I asked her to, while I was baking all sorts of cookies and goodies for our treat plates that we were giving for Christmas. It’s a treasured memory, because it’s really the last time my mom and I were able to do that together.

The other night at the family party, we got to talking about family Christmas traditions - like eating “ethnic” foods on Christmas Eve (Mike’s family did ravioli and Rochelle’s family does Mexican, for instance), and my sister in law asked me what our traditions were when I was a kid. I talked about how we always went to my Aunt Frankie’s house on Christmas Eve and the whole family was there - a very warm and glowing memory in my heart. And then I remembered my mom’s potato candy. My sil asked if I ever made it, and it kind of made me sad to realize I never really had since she died, and that it would be a shame to not pass on that memory and tradition of her grandmother to Little Girl.

So today, I made potato candy. I was amazed at the chemical reaction of the mashed potato and the powdered sugar (it gets VERY watery and I do mean VERY, if you try this at home, before it firms up into a dough - you have to add a LOT of powdered sugar), and I wished beyond measure that I could call my mom and ask her if I was doing it right.

Mike, bless him, said, “She’s saying, ‘You’re doing it right, Karin! Keep going!’” And so I kept going. And I finished it. And so many feelings washed over me that when I was done I just cried in Mike’s arms for a few minutes.

I’m not exactly sure why, after six years, this Christmas seems harder than usual, but it is. Maybe it’s because LG is getting older and I wish my mom could be here to see her. I know she’s “here”, but you know what I mean. Maybe it’s because my father is actually going to spend Christmas with us this year for the first time since she died. I don’t know, but whatever the reason, my heart seems a little more fragile this year than for the past few years.

It’s funny, though, how the simple act of making potato candy, brought her so much closer to me than I could have imagined. I miss you Mom. But I will think of you with every bite of potato candy I take.

Grief is something that comes in waves. At the beginning it’s just a continuous overwhelming tsunami that sweeps you away and consumes you and you have to fight your way to the top again and again. Sometimes it pulls you back down for awhile, but you manage to fight your way back up. Then slowly, slowly, the waves begin to lessen and you go under less frequently, until one day you stop going down and you float along on the gentle lapping waves toward the shore. And finally, you are deposited on the beach and there you spend your days, digging in the sand, building sand castles, sunbathing, and collecting seashells until another great wave crashes onto you and drags you back out to sea. But now you’re a master swimmer and you can fight your way back to shore a little faster. There are no more tsunamis, no more tidal waves, just the occasional big wave that tries to drag you back out into the sea of grief, but you don’t let it anymore. You fight your way back. Faster and faster every time. But no matter how often you fight your way back, there will always be a wave that pulls you out now and then. The time between the waves gets longer and longer, but they still come crashing onto the shore every once in awhile. And sometimes they are just small little tides that cover your feet but don’t pull you all the way in. Such is grief.

My mom has been gone for almost seven years now. And for the most part my grief is quiet tides covering my feet. But now and again, there are loud crashing waves that threaten to drag me back down into that sea of grief.

This weekend amidst all the joy of my daughter’s birthday, I missed my mother terribly. The older she gets, the harder it is not to have my mother here to share it with me, because I know how very much she would love that little girl - almost as much as I do.

But, I cannot let the grief overwhelm me, because she wouldn’t want it to be that way. And really, she is here. In every smile, every laugh, every jut of the jaw and wave of my daughter’s hand. She’s here in a molecular way because of mitochondrial dna, of course, but she’s here in the spirit of a little girl who I know my mother sent to me to keep me from drowning in the waves of grief for the rest of my life.

I miss my mother every day, but I delight and rejoice in my daugher, who is my physical bond to my mother. Sometimes my grief is loud, but the loudness is fleeting and the quiet grief is what remains. My mother is in my heart and in my daughter. And therefore, she will always be with me.

If I am kind, it’s because my mother showed me by her actions how to be kind to others.

If I am polite, it’s because my mother taught me to say please and thank you.

If I am strong, it’s because my mother was strong and expected the same from me.

If I am talented, it’s because my mother told me I could do anything and was my biggest fan.

If I am patient, it’s because my mother was patient with me.

If I have a sense of humor, it’s because my mother laughed with me and not at me.

If I am diplomatic or tactful, it’s because my mother was gentle in her criticism of me.

If I can cook and sew, it’s because my mother took the time to teach me how.

If I have unconditional love for my daughter, it’s because my mother had unconditional love for me.

If I love to read and to learn and to discover, it’s because my mother instilled the love of learning in me.

If I am a good wife, it’s because I learned from my mother how to be one.

If I am a good mother, it’s because my mother was an amazing example of what a mother should be.

I could talk about mitochondrial DNA and genetics, but I won’t. All I will say is that even though my mother is gone, I see her and touch her every day, because I know that she is a part of Little Girl. I know that just as I have carried part of my grandchildren inside of me while I was pregnant, she did the same and so in some amazing molecular way, they have touched and known each other even before I knew either one of them.

I miss you Mom. Every single day.

And Little Girl, to you I say thank you for coming into my life and bringing me smiles and joy and giving me someone to pour into all the love my mother poured into me.

My mother often told me that she saw her mother in me and now I see my mother in my daughter…the circle of life.

Six years ago today it was raining. It had rained all night long and it didn’t seem like it was ever going to let up. It pretty much matched my mood. It was a Tuesday and the Friday before my mother had come home to our house on hospice. To die. It’s a pretty tough thing to wrap your brain around. Only a few weeks before we had been talking about how well she had been doing and preparing for her to get out of the care center she was staying in and come stay with us - a monumental undertaking, but something we all wanted - for her to be able to come home. Now she was home, but not the way we had planned it. Earlier in the week, we had been in the hospital with her talking to her doctor - me, my husband, my father and my mother - and she told me she wanted what I wanted. And that was the moment - the defining moment if there really is one - that I became truly an adult in every way - because I had to put her needs ahead of my own. After a lifetime of her putting me first, it was time to repay the favor. We all stood there knowing what coming home meant. And she looked at me and she told me that she wanted what I wanted. Since before I was born, my mother sacrificed for me - from miscarriages to bedrest - and now she was willing to do it again in her darkest hour. When all she wanted was an end to pain, she was willing to try again to get better, to go through more pain and suffering in order to stay with me. Whatever I decided was what she would do. Even if it took another year in the care center away from home.

I still remember that moment so vividly. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. The world seemed to stop in that moment. Our eyes were locked, hers filled with love, but no pleading. No begging. No askance. Just love. And trust. I would imagine that mine were also filled with love. But I bet there was a lot of pain in them too, and pleading. Pleading for her to take the decision away from me. But she wouldn’t do that. She trusted me to do the right thing. And no one else in that room could make that decision for me. It was between her and me. And no one else. It probably wasn’t more than a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. I remember taking a deep breath. I remember reaching out to grab Mike’s hand and I remember how tightly he held mine in his. But he didn’t say a word. Just offered silent support. My mother didn’t look at my father at all. It was between the two of us alone. And then I grew up. In a split second, my 33 year old self became an adult. And I told her I wanted what she wanted. And her face crumpled and she told us she wanted to go home. And we all knew that she didn’t just mean home to our house but to a home that had no pain, no tears, no sorrow, only joy.

And that is what she did on a Friday afternoon. I remember thinking how terribly small and frail she looked on the stretcher as they brought her into our home that we had rushed to prepare for her arrival. But her face? It glowed. She was so happy to be home. So very very happy. And I tried to be happy, too. I did a good job for the most part. The next few days were the hardest of my life I think. Trying to take care of her and say goodbye and watch her slip further and further away and have a really really hard time being alone. And then that Tuesday morning it rained and the phone kept ringing and no one was there. And then I heard her take her last ragged breath and she was gone. And I went in to say goodbye and I didn’t go back in again. Because she was gone. I didn’t need to see her body. I felt her spirit all around me and I have every single day since then. In the darkest days and the happiest. It’s been hard not to have her here with me in person - to not be able to share the joy of her granddaughter, but I know she’s here, because part of that granddaughter is her. Call it mitochondrial DNA, call it genetics, or just call it a love that could not be quenched even in death.

See, I get it now. When she gave me that decision - that horrible decision - to make, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why she “made” ME choose. But now? Now I get it. Because now I love someone as much as she loved me.

Six years ago today she took her last breath. And the rain stopped. And the world kept on going. And it still keeps on going. And I still keep missing her.

Yesterday was my biannual visit to the cemetery where my mother is buried. I go on her birthday and Mother’s Day which makes it approximately every six months. If we happen to be in the neighborhood for some reason, we’ll stop by as well. The cemetery is in the “old neighborhood” which is not such a safe neighborhood anymore and feels more like Northern Mexico nowadays what with all the billboards in Spanish and all. (That’s why I don’t go more often.)

Anyway, there was a funeral procession entering the cemetery when we pulled up to the entrance, so we had to wait for that to finish up before we could get in. Luckily it wasn’t anywhere near my mom’s grave so it didn’t interfere with our visit or vice versa.

When we got out of the car and started walking toward her grave, Little Girl reached her hand out toward something. It could have been any number of things that people had left on nearby graves, but it was dead on in the direction of my mom’s grave, so I like to think she was reaching out for her grandma.

We sat there for awhile, telling Mom/Grandma all the things that were going on in our lives. We could hear the mariachis playing for the funeral a couple of sections over. We could hear the cars passing by on the main road. We could feel the breeze on our skin. There’s something about a cemetery. Whether there’s a lot of activity going on or not, it’s peaceful. I don’t know if there’s a reason for that other than the fact that it is what it is, but I always feel at peace when I go visit my mother there.

I can see the street where I grew up from her grave. I didn’t take the time to swing by the old house this time. I just didn’t feel the need and once we were out of the cemetery, the peaceful feeling went away fairly quickly replaced by the “this is not a great neighborhood and I’d like to get out of it quickly” feeling, so we headed home.

I have a lot of other family members bured in that cemetery, and I do visit them on occasion as well. Some day I will take Little Girl around and show her all the different graves and tell her about all the different family members including her great grandparents and her great great great grandparents. I think it’s kind of awe-inspiring to know that she can see where some of her ancestors are buried. In fact, we have a cane belonging to those great great great grandparents and a picture of them with it. Family history spanning six generations. When she touches that cane she will be touching the past. That’s a wonderful thing I think.

Today would have been my mother’s 75th birthday. It’s strange to think of her in her 70s because she was 69 when she died, so I didn’t know my mom in her 70s. I wasn’t going to actually write 75 things, because I didn’t figure anyone would really want to read them, but then I realized it would be a great thing for Little Girl to have when she gets older and it will be a great thing to put in the scrapbook I’m making about her. So, don’t feel obligated to read the whole thing or any of it at all if you don’t want to. It’s just me preserving memories. (Read on …)

Okay, so scrapbooking was fun. However, I still say I don’t want to do every facet of my life. Just special things. I have pretty much decided that I will do a scrapbook of Baby Girl’s first year. I think that would be cool. :) But first things first - gotta finish the one I started or at least make more progress. ;)

I think one of the best parts of the evening was just being able to sit and enjoy quality time with other women - chatting and venting and sharing stories and keeping each other company as we worked. I think it’s the quilting bee of the 21st century really - the getting together to scrapbook. And yes, I remember going with my mom to quilting bees when I was a little kid, and although I have no idea what they were gossiping chatting about, I certainly remember them doing it while we kids played and had a grand old time.

So, there was me, Marlene, Marlene’s sister-in-law, and Rochelle, along with Baby Girl, The Princess (age 4) and The Social Butterfly (5th grade). Baby Girl took maybe a half hour nap and was up until 11 pm! She was having too much fun playing. And playing. And playing. Oh and watching The Wiggles. Yeah. She has been wiggloctrinated. And all I have to say to that is that it’s better than Barney.

So, I now have a concept of how to do scrapbook pages. And I actually got two done last night and just finished another one after my scrapbooking shopping spree to Michael’s this afternoon. They were having a sale all right? Sheesh. ;-)

If you want pictures, you must click! Included are pictures of my first two pages. Be kind - I’m just learning after all! (Read on …)

This is one of my favorites of the photos of my mom I found in her old photo albums. She just looks so happy and joyful and carefree in this picture. There was no date on it, but I’d guess she was probably around 16 or so give or take a couple of years.

Nothing like going through old pictures to get you feeling introspective is there? I ran across a pic of my mom with what I think is one of her old boyfriends. He looked like a happy, handsome guy and I wondered if my mom ever regretted not marrying him instead of my dad. And then I thought if she had married him there wouldn’t be a Karin and if no Karin there would be no Baby Girl and I can’t imagine a world without Baby Girl. And then I knew the answer. Nope, she didn’t regret not marrying him. Because she would have felt the same way. She wouldn’t have been able to imagine a world without me. Now I get it Mom. Now I get it.

Now I understand what my mom meant when she told me it was sometimes weird for her to look at me because I reminded her so much of her own mother. Because sometimes when I look at Baby Girl I see my mother looking back at me. Other times I see myself. And sometimes it’s very unnerving to have your mother or yourself looking back at you from a 9 1/2 month old face. I can just imagine how weird it will be when I have to discipline her and it feels like I’m disciplining my mom or myself. eek.

I’m not really much of a scrapbooker. Okay, let’s really be honest here. I’m not a scrapbooker at all, because for one thing I just don’t have the patience to do it. And for another, for the most part, I’d rather just look at a photo album than a scrapbook. There are exceptions. I think scrapbooks that tell stories are awesome - like a vacation or a special event or maybe even the story of ancestors or something like that. But to scrapbook every facet of my life and every picture I own? Not so much. So, with those things in mind, I mentioned to Marlene that I wanted to learn how to scrapbook and asked for suggestions on how to go about doing so. Her suggestion was that she will teach me…lol. So Friday night we’re having a scrapbooking party/lesson/or whatever you want to call it. My idea is that I want to put together a scrapbook about my mother for Baby Girl.

So, to get ready for our scrapbooking extravaganza on Friday night, today I was scanning old pictures from my mom’s photo albums. And here’s the thing. She who shall not be named? Was friends with my mom when they were young. And there are all these pictures of her in the photo albums. And it takes every bit of my willpower to not rip them to shreds or burn them to ashes. Because why do I want pictures of the person who did not even bother to tell my father that I had an emergency c-section and he was a grandfather eight weeks early? Why do I want pictures of the person who has been nothing but vile to me and my family for practically their whole sham of a marriage? Why do I want pictures that make me think about someone that I try very hard not to think about because I don’t want to do the anger thing anymore? WHY?

Breathe Karin breathe. Okay. There is a reason why. And the reason is that those are my mother’s memories. That bilious creature who is unfortunately part of my father’s life now was a part of my mother’s life then. And she obviously had some redeeming qualities at some point because otherwise why would my mother have been friends with her? It would be wrong of me to destroy her memories. Because maybe, just maybe, it will matter to my daughter some day to know that at least when she was young, the person who does her best to keep her grandfather away from us was cared about by her grandmother, and that should mean something. Shouldn’t it?