Mother's Day this year brought the realization that my mom left this earthly existence 20 years ago that very weekend. On October 10 she'd have been 78 years young.
That Friday she'd come to watch our daughter while I worked, fairly routine but it was a sudden switch in the schedule and she was tired.
Mom doted on our nearly 2-year-old daughter that Friday morning. They played with a brand new Beanie Baby, she carefully made their lunch, and soon after sang her lullabies at naptime.
Kiddo asleep, mom came down and stood in my office doorway. A bit more tired than usual, speaking almost dreamingly, she told me of plans for the near future that included a surprise trip for my dad to Baraboo, she worried about dad stressing over his business. She'd also decided she was going to start living a healthier life, to get more fit and generally feel better so she could see her grandchildren grow up, "Whether or not your father joins me," she added.
When she was ready to leave, I took a break from my desk to walk her out where we lingered much longer than usual on our goodbyes.
She stayed in the drive until I was inside, still just watching it seemed. She left after I waved and blew a kiss to her and saying we'd see her on Sunday, Mother's Day.
My husband came home and I told him about the special kind of goodbye mom and I had shared and that it seemed everything was going to be an orderly switch beginning the following week. No more long drives for her to help us out with our daughter while I worked. We'd been stocking up on gas gift cards for her to use, which she always refused, so now we were going to give them to her as gifts to help with that trip she mentioned, Utopian Girl made a few choices at the store for what a grandma might need to have fun, and we took out a special ad in the Chicago Tribune Mother's Day section that read, "For All You Do, Babcia, I Love You!"
Soon, the baby monitor sounded the rustle of a blanket and we heard our toddler woke from her nap quietly saying, "Babcia, I'm up. Babcia?" I grabbed the phone, poked the speed dial, and shared with my mother our daughter's voice calling for her. At first, she felt bad about not being here when Utopian Girl got up. I explained to my beloved mother it was the most endearing, loving thing to my ears to hear our daughter looking for her Babcia. I could hear the smile in my mother's voice when she chattered that she would call back shortly to talk with Utopian Girl, that my brother and his little girl had stopped by for a brief visit on their way home.
We exchanged, "Love you," "Love you, too," and the phone hit the cradle just as I heard my 2-year-old Goddaughter's voice squeal with excitement seeing her grandma.
Not 30 minutes later, the phone rang. I thought, "That was really quick!" Picking up the receiver, it wasn't my mother's voice but my sister, nearly hysterical, screaming that she walked from work to find our mother on the floor, maybe sleeping, but she wasn't able to wake her up. I told her to call 911, which she'd already done, and my eyes began to leak scared tears that continued to blur the rest of the night.
The woman I'd given gray hair and worry lines was someone I'd grown to admire and had become great friends with was gone in an instant.
I remember the first time I heard myself say that my mother had died, very unexpectedly and quite young. It was at the fertility clinic the following morning. Routine, clock-like blood draws and ultrasounds to closely monitor of all sorts of whatever were on the schedule. I was surprised to see one of my favorite nurses working and rather casually asked her how much stress would affect our attempts at pregnancy that particular cycle. She asked why and I told her; then collapsed onto a chair, sobbing. They sent me home with hugs and tissues but did no testing that day.
The next many days, weeks, and months were rough. For obvious reasons and for all sorts of reasons that aren't important now, if they ever were. I just know it was a time of harsh reality, emotional twister, and unrelenting pain that faded slowly, ever too slowly, over time.
To say that I am grateful to have learned something about the woman who was my mother, my confidante, my best girlfriend is an understatement like no other.
Mother's Day is celebrated any and every day of the year, now. Much like when Buster's mom stresses over the holiday being perfect for him, he names Baxter Day their day in "Arthur's Perfect Christmas," Similarly, my Young Utopians came up with their own version of Baxter Day to let me know I'm special to them WHENEVER the mood strikes. It's fun.
But I never stop missing my mom. Even in Freaking Utopia.
