Friday, December 9, 2016

70

Today did not sneak up on me.  I saw it coming; looked forward to it, almost. I found her favorite recipes, prepared one of her famous meals, baked Christmas cookies and shopped and returned things to stores past their 30 day limit, with success! All of these things she loved, and she loved sharing things she loved with others. I thought of her all week, felt her passion for the things I was doing in her honor and I really felt as if I was already doing the hard work of grief by doing things she enjoyed.

So what are these tears? Why the deep sadness? It's not like I expected her to show up and join me...

Oh, but what if she could? Wouldn't  that be so wonderful? If she called and I could share with her about how worried I am that my son cannot sit in pre-k to hear a story, or that he locked us both out of the house and I thought we'd freeze waiting for a solution?  He might need glasses and I have to schedule an appointment with an optometrist; that my oldest was sent to the office for back-talking his teacher and who are these children; why is parenting so stinking hard? If she could be there to help decorate cookies with her grand babies and we would laugh over good wine as we prepared a delicious meal to celebrate her 70th birthday? We could shop for Christmas toys and matching outfits for pictures or tear TJ Maxx apart to find the perfect button-down for my husband, the hardest man to shop for.

It's not happening. It won't happen.... There they are again, those damn tears. Relieving and embarrassing, and telling and exhausting.

I thought if I anticipated this day with activity and busyness, it might actually slip by without notice. But, I was obviously wrong. Today would have been a HUGE celebration. Seventy. Years. Old.  When she turned sixty we threw her a surprise party in the basement of my family home. She hated that.  I'm dreaming about how we could have done it differently this time; traveled somewhere exotic, probably international since she made me get the boys' their passports.  We would find a local fancy restaurant and I would fret about the boys behaving or not sitting still long enough to enjoy the food and the occasion, but she would be loving having all of us together, her family. Her clan. Her only's.

Happy birthday, Mom. Every year doesn't get easier without you, but the pain eases, still. It's confusing and awful and yet, God is still the same and he offers comfort through himself and those who also are hurting in a same kind of pain.  Another year means nothing where you are, but I know that if heaven is anything like this place, you'll probably throw your own party. Cheers.