Pregnancy Week 32: Mother’s Day

My favorite memory of my mom is also one of the most mysterious.

It happened when I was in first grade, and the teacher abruptly sent me to the principal’s office. My mom was there, waiting, and she gave me the kind of look that meant I should keep my mouth shut.

This was clearly unusual. I had never been to the principal’s office before, let alone in the middle of the school day. My mom signed a form or something, and then she held my hand as she guided me out of the school, into the parking lot and into our family station wagon.

When I was buckled into the car, she handed me a paper bag from some toy store that probably doesn’t exist anymore.

“Go on. Open it,” she said.

Inside was a Glamour Gal, a 4-inch tall doll of molded plastic and tiny features. She had luscious blonde hair, just like the lady on WKRP in Cincinnati, and was wearing a blue tube dress. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

The present was strange, because it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas or any special occasion at all.

 

After that, we went to McDonalds, and my mom bought me a Happy Meal. This was also strange, because it was something that just didn’t happen. We rarely went out to eat, fast food or otherwise, but when we did it was with the whole family.

I remember stirring my soggy fries into puddles of ketchup, just like mom did, and it felt very grown-up, like two sassy ladies out on the town. When my mom finally brought me home, she said I must never tell anyone about our secret afternoon outing. I waited for something like that to happen again, but it never did.

My mom did a lot of terrific things for me, so I’m not sure why that incident sticks in my head. I suppose it’s the oddity and rarity of it.

I don’t remember the context of that day — what was happening at home or at school. Maybe my mom was sad and lonely, and she wanted to do something to strengthen our relationship. Maybe she was just bored and wanted to see me. Maybe that’s the day my first-grade teacher was baptizing everyone into the Church of Satan, and she was protecting me. Who knows?

I wish I could ask her.

This is the fourth Mother’s Day since my mom passed away. But since she spent 10 years dying of Alzheimer’s Disease, it feels like I’ve been without her much longer.

 

It’s difficult to explain Alzheimer’s to those who haven’t tried to love someone through it. It’s a thief of a disease. It doesn’t only steal memories, it steals the victim’s everything.

Alzheimer’s took the light that illuminated my mother’s eyes, and it left behind someone I no longer recognized.

It’s only fair, I guess, that she no longer recognized me either.

 

I spent many years resentful of this — it’s how I mourned. I was angry that my mom abandoned me. I didn’t have a mom to call when I got engaged. I didn’t have a mom to watch me walk down the aisle. I didn’t have a mom around when adult life felt fierce and overwhelming. I didn’t have a mom when I needed one.

For a long time, I pushed away memories of her. I could only recall the most mundane things — our drive to church, her vacuuming the house, the way she studied her the arch of her eyebrows as she filled them in with a makeup pencil.

But now that I’m writing a memoir in which she figures prominently, I’m starting to excavate my memories again, and she materializes in the most surprising places. I hear a George Michael song, and it reminds me of mom dancing in the kitchen, committing crimes against chicken. (Seriously, she was a terrible cook.)  Spring flowers remind me of how my mom found wild honeysuckle in our backyard, plucked the stamen and placed the sweet drop of nectar on my tongue. Certain smells remind me of her perfume, her sweat, her skin.

I think of her even more now as my pregnancy progresses. I wish she were here to offer me advice and guide me down this brand-new path. Maybe I wouldn’t even want her opinions if she were here to give them; maybe I would hate her advice. It would just be nice to have the option.

 

The funny thing is that the longer she’s away from me, the closer I feel to her.

 

I’m not a person who believes in heaven as a literal place. I think it’s a beautiful myth, and I have no problem with people who do believe in the concept. But for me personally, I don’t think my mom is watching me from above or looking down over me. I don’t think  I will somehow be reunited with her when I die.

What I am attached to is the concept of energy, which doesn’t dissipate simply because a physical body dies — I believe souls never disappear, they just change form.

I’m sad my mom will never meet my son. Even so, I feel her energy now, every day. It’s here as I rub my growing belly. It’s here as I feel a small little thing kicking inside me. And it’ll still be here someday when I spontaneously pick my child up from school, give him a surprise present and take him to lunch for no reason whatsoever.