I miss my mom. She’s been gone almost 10 years. I miss her voice; I miss how she took care of me, even from miles away. And I miss what we never had: shared time with my children, her granddaughters. She never met them. She never even knew that I ended up marrying that nice guy who grew up down the street, the one I painted houses with, the one who drove me home from work one time. Dave says he walked me to the door and met my mother that day, but I don’t remember.
I don’t remember a lot, especially about when I was my girls’ ages. I cannot count the number of times something has come up as I’ve raised these kids, and I’ve wanted to ask my mom some question: Did I want to do everything first but finish my dessert last, like Lexi? Did my front teeth take a long time to grow in, like Caroline’s? When I was little, did I plan my birthday parties months in advance, down to the details of how many fairies and butterflies would be on my red cake with rainbow sprinkles? Did I even go through a fairy phase?
I am blessed to have had her for as long as I did; I know this.
I took Lexi to one of her first swim lessons at Riva Swim Center last week. There was a mom there with her mother, and as they stood around the pool, watching the little girl in Lexi’s class, I caught myself leaning in trying to listen, wondering what conversation I’d be having if my mom were there with me.
I would have asked about my first swim lesson. Did parents dote as much as they do now? A handful of mothers stood or sat near the wall watching their kids kick water as if the children were actually walking on top of the water. Cameras and camcorders and cell phones were poised like Michael Phelps was about to unload on the 200m fly. Moms grinned and waved, eyes wide, reaching their long arms, free styling in the air, blowing make-believe bubbles. They were, I will say, actively engaged.
And I was right there with them. Lexi wore her new goggles, which she kept flipping around and fooling with. I was so worried they weren’t fitting comfortably; I considered jumping in to help. After every stint with Mark-the-instructor in the pool, she’d scootch herself onto the edge, adjust her swim suit straps, then knock around a bit with her goggles before looking over at me, her eyes magnified and a bit mushed. She’d give a nod then a thumbs-up, a miniature Maverick in Top Gun.
Right back atcha, Lexi. In a half hour, I’d say we exchanged about 23 nods and thumbs-up. We were like a pair of dolphins in some insane Sea World act, mimicking each other, lifting our bottled noses into the air, again and again and again: “You’re great!” “No, you’re great!” “No, you’re great!” “No, you’re great!”
If my mom had been there, I would have asked, did you hover like a helicopter? Because I don’t remember that. It seemed like you were more normal than I am. I know you worried. You were fully aware that bad things happened to good people. You knew the risks of parenting. But you didn’t try too hard to control things. You watched from the wall, keeping a healthy distance. You probably didn’t do a ton of thumbs-upping— but I always knew that you were there.
Lexi loves the water. She has spent so much time hacking around in the pool during the last few summers, that she’s developed some habits Mr. Mark may need duct tape to fix. But when Lexi sits on the edge and Mark in his booming voice asks, “Who wants to go first?” her hand flies. He looks at me and smiles. Then looks back at her: “I didn’t even tell you what you were doing yet!”
Lexi greets the water like it’s a dear friend she hasn’t seen in ages; she runs to and hugs it all at once—part jump, part dive, part love. She splashes in then raises her head quickly, water lifting around her, legs and arms moving, happiness everywhere. Mark settles her, gets her to put her face down, her legs straight, her toes pointed. He booms, “Swim to the edge!” and she does…with her face up, her legs dangling, and her arms running. He looks back at me again and smiles, “She’ll get there!” while Lexi scootches herself up onto the edge, waiting eagerly for her next turn.
I believe she’s already there. She is fearless, and she is having so much fun. I want to live like Lexi swims.
Dear Mom, I really hope you’re catching some of this.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Ready, Sec, Go!
Mommy, are you old or are you new?
Whoop and Daisy Doo!
Mommy: This oatmeal is very watery for some reason.
Caroline: Maybe you put too much water in it.
I’m a doctor, so I can put her shoes on.
I’m not listening because I love you.
Are gloves the ones with separate rooms for fingers?
Come on, let’s run and jiggle!
I’m trying to secret you.
Lexi, don’t listen to yourself; listen to Mommy.
A 64 box of crayons is a “stadium” and tears are “sad dots.”
Caroline at her 4-year “wellness” visit after having had four shots is screaming. Mommy tries to calm her: “That’s it, that’s it–just 4 shots. You’re 4 years old and you get 4 shots!” Caroline: “What’s going to happen when I’m 100?!”
I just want to say to God, thanks for drawing us.
After our trip to Quebec City: “Now the only castle I know that we have NOT been to is Dis-i-nee World.”
At breakfast, Caroline says, “Lexi, did I tell you the monsters were going to eat us today?” Lexi watches her half-interested, like she’s just looked up from reading the paper: “No.”
I spy something grey—Daddy’s hair.
You say ‘I love you’ and I’ll say ‘I love you, too’ because that’s my favorite line.