Timeless Gifts

Every now and then, I like to give my friends gifts to let them know I appreciate them, above and beyond me telling them. 

I picked this up from my Mom, no doubt. She was always giving thoughtful gifts, and nothing was ever ridiculous or overpriced. It was a hand cream, a box of tea, a pen and notepad set: Always a little something to let her friends know she was thinking of them. Sometimes when I see something I know a friend would love, I wrap it up and give it to them. Or at least put it in a nice plastic bag. Hey, sometimes I’m pressed for time. It’s the thought that counts.

I learned that early on from my Mom: It isn’t so much the tangible gift that matters, but the thought behind it that is of true value. Over the years, my mother always bought me little gifts. Sometimes because she thought it was funny, other times because we’d gotten into a fight and she wanted to apologize. Last year I had to part with a snow globe that she’d given me 13 years earlier, because it was moulding on the inside. It killed me to throw it out, because it was a peace offering after a very big argument.

And then yesterday, after seeing something a friend said on Twitter, I remembered the book.

When I was 22 years old, my Mom gave me a children’s book.  At first I thought she was joking, and thought maybe she was implying I needed to “grow up”. She wasn’t always overly subtle.

We were in my bedroom when she gave me the book, sitting together on the edge of my bed. My Mom always made a big deal about presenting us with gifts, watching eagerly to see our excited reactions. With her watching me intently, I un-wrapped the very large and hardcover book: The Velveteen Rabbit.

If you’ve not read this book, please do. It was the quintessential children’s book, about a boy's love for his stuffed toy rabbit.

When I looked at her quizzically, she said: “I forgot to read this to you when you were little, so I want you to have it now.”

And when she left my room, I cried. I cried because sometimes I thought my Mom felt she wasn’t doing a good job of being my Mom.

Her own relationship with her Mother was non-existant, and they stopped talking around the time I was born. I never met that Grandmother. Their relationship was so bad, I think that sometimes my Mom worried she would turn into her, and hurt my brother and I. She had no Mother/Daughter relationship to learn from, so ours was often fiery as we learned how to love each other.

I’m not sure I really ever told her what a great Mother she was. I say it here a lot, but maybe I didn’t say it to her enough. I don’t know. What I do know is that she made me the woman I am today. And that I wouldn’t be able to do half the things I do without having had her as my Mother. If I’m ever blessed with a daughter one day, I hope I’m a Mom just like Judi Miller was.

And if you’re reading over my shoulder, Mom, you were the best. You really really were.

Painting Pictures + Making Soup

Matzo Ball Soup, the cure all.

In the nearly 6 years since my Mom died, I’ve noticed that my absolute lowest moments are when I realize that I can’t share my hugely amazing / horrifyingly bad experiences with her.

She wasn’t there for my wedding, or my divorce.

She wasn’t there for the following months of depression, when I was trying to remember who I was or what I was all about.

And now as I work through a recent break-up and equally recent job loss, she isn’t on the other end of the phone talking me through, and making me laugh at my foibles.

In a thoughtful conversation about loss last month, my father asked me if I was angry with her for leaving me, for dying. For not being around when I need her and even when I don’t.

At first I said no. And then realized that maybe I am a little mad after all. Just not at her.

Although I know my mother can’t be blamed for getting Cancer, I often find myself feeling angry that she isn’t at the other end of the phone, and resentful that she was taken from me. Those feelings are always soon replaced by a gaping sadness, and sometimes tears.

I often wonder if there is something wrong with me, still crying at my loss 6 years later. I tell stories about her and still get that lump in my throat. Part of me wishes that feeling would go away, and the other part embraces that sadness for what it is: A colorful memory, a reminder that I’m human. And an ever present reminder of how much I loved my Mom, and how much she loved me.

Every new happening, every new experience, is a jolting reminder that I have to figure things out on my own. Although my Dad has become my sounding board, and the person on whom I can lean when I need to, it isn’t the same as the Mother/Daughter chemistry. And I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t want to hear about my leg waxes and bad dates, although he feigns interest because he loves me.

As a little kid, I would paint pictures or draw at the kitchen table. I would hardly look up from my project, dutifully coloring within the lines, or painting rainbows and houses. And every single time I was done, I would hold it up proudly for my Mother to see, and wait for her to say “That’s beautiful!” or “Good job!” It was that loving validation that made everything worthwhile. I painted for her, I colored for her, and I even brushed my teeth for her:  I only ever wanted to make her proud of me. And now, as an adult, I so miss that validation. I miss hearing my Mother tell me not only that everything will be fine, but that I’m doing a good job.

When you lose a parent, it can feel like you’ve lost your decision-making abilities. You second guess yourself. You can’t make choices without running it by them first, or at least letting them know you’ve done something you’re excited about.

In losing my Mom, I have become my own sounding-board. I do seek opinions and validation from those I love and respect, but at the end of it all the final bang of the gavel is mine. My amazing Dad celebrates my successes and gives me the best advice he can on a regular basis, but I know that I have to be able to stand behind the decisions I make. I am the only person who can really and truly celebrate my accomplishments and learn from my mistakes.

So today as I sit at home with a fever and a sinus infection, I’m making my own damn soup. It’s exactly how she would have made it, but with some tweaks from me.

And it’s really good because I said so.