“Are you sad?” My three year old implores from the backseat of the car. She asks me this at random most days, catching me by surprise. Maybe she senses it even before I do.
“Yes, I am sad,” I say.
“Do you need a hug?”
“I would love a hug.”
“Is it because you miss your mommy?”
“Yes.”
“But Sitti lives in our hearts,” she says, repeating what my husband and I have told her.
“That’s right. She is always with us in our hearts. We can talk to her whenever we want.”
“And we can talk about her,” she adds, as if she is teaching me this for the first time.
“Yep, we can remember all the things we loved about Sitti, can’t we?”
We recall how good my mother was at playing games, at sharing her food, at making us laugh, and a million other things. Lately she says, “I want to talk more about Sitti,” and it fills me with immense joy and sadness. Just this morning, she asked to go get flowers from Trader Joe’s “because Sitti would love that.” Insert heartbreak emoji, amiright?
“But you know what Sitti was really good at?” I ask my daughter. Her crystalline grey-blue eyes grow wide. I huddle in closer, like it’s a secret. “Sitti always made us feel so special, didn’t she?”
My mother had a gift at making everyone feel special, but her ability to make her family feel like the most important people in the world, our lives the most interesting tapestry ever woven, was steadfast. My mother not only tolerated accounts of the most mundane aspects of our lives, she relished them. To her, everything about her family was the most scintillating conversation topic and the most important matter of business.
To borrow from the eulogy my brother and I wrote for her funeral: “Our mother was not only the person who loved us first, but she also loved us in a way that felt sacred. Irrefutable, unreplicable, and irreplaceable.”
Reliving my mother’s strengths aloud to my daughter feels like a shot of dopamine—like when you finally get a chance to talk about what you want to talk about. Or when you unexpectedly make a new friend, but it feels like you’ve known each other all your lives; or when you’re with an old friend and you laugh until your mouth hurts; or when you’ve just fallen in love and your newly minted object of affection hangs on every word like honey from the comb.
When I tell my daughter about my mother, my favorite subject, my heart whirs with excitement. This feels important. I expected my mother would be around for at least another 10 years. At least until my daughter was finishing elementary school. At least old enough so that my children would remember her. In her absence, I have to make sure they know her. I am abuzz with all the ways I can remind them.
Then my daughter snaps me back to reality.
“But Sitti died.”
Oof.
The hospice facility at which my mother passed away offered an abundance of emotional support—occasionally too much, because sometimes you just want everyone to shut up and leave you alone and let you melt into a hole in the ground next to your dying mother. But of that support was a very helpful pamphlet on how to talk to children about death, broken out by age group. For my daughter’s bracket, the three year olds, they suggest:
“Be specific. Say that your loved one ‘had died’ or ‘is dead.’ Children this age do not understand vague terms such as ‘they are with the angels now’ or ‘they’ve passed.’” But it never ceases to break my heart and also make me laugh every time my enthusiastic, 34-inch human says, wide eyed and matter-of-factly, “Yeah. She died.”
My mother’s absence has, naturally, brought on all varieties of clarity: The painfully real confirmation that one minute you can be telling someone you love them and a few minutes later you can, quite literally, find them lying on your guest room floor without a pulse. I’m this close to being the kind of person who wears graphic tees that say “life is short!” and “YOLO!”
At my mother’s funeral, her priest described her as “present.” Rarely was she distracted. When I think of what made her a “good” mother, I recall that she listened thoughtfully; she put her own agenda aside. She always treated me with respect and admiration. She saw me for who I was, and encouraged me to grow into my uniqueness. She has loved me in every iteration. But mostly, she just always made me feel so damn special. I’m grateful I ever knew that sort of love; it’s made me recognize the attributes of mothering—how to do it and how to seek it. But the truth is, she was just a good friend. You don’t need children to mother in this way. I support anyone who remains childless by choice. Mother energy can belong to anyone.
When I talk to my friend, Jayne, she listens with such intensity that I feel as though I’m the only person in the room. She listens, so that when she responds, I know that she heard me. When I am with Erin, I am with family. We are easy, on autopilot, in each other’s company, and I know I can be entirely myself with her. My Courtneys are always checking in on me, and I know that Paige would stab someone in my honor. More than once, Monika has rushed to my side in a time of crisis. Julie’s love language is food and gifts and showing up. I know that with Helen, I can say anything, and she will welcome me in. Jaime, Natalie, Christy—so many people not mentioned here—have been there for me physically, emotionally, and spiritually, to keep me afloat.
My friends and I have developed an intimate language that provides a safe space for me to show up as I am. They challenge my ideas and encourage my growth, and when I am near collapse, their arms are outstretched to catch me. And no, there is no one left to mother me in the exact same way that my mother knew how to do it, but my friends, whether they have children or not, have made it clear they know what to do.
At the heart of mothering is love. Simply love for those who need mothering, a love of caretaking, a love of loving. What’s remarkable is that, since my mother’s death, I’ve also been mothered by all kinds of friends, including acquaintances and near-strangers: those I don’t see often, those I haven’t talked to lately, even my husband’s friends and co-workers. Collective mothering has commenced! These people continue to teach me how to love better, and I hope, in turn, I can repay the favor.
My daughter is young, but already we are specific when we tell her, “These are ways we can make each other feel special. This is how you can show someone you love them.” We’ve started to explain that it’s important to surround yourself with people who make you feel good. Who make you laugh, who make you feel comfortable, and accept you as you are. These are my mother’s legacies. It’s never too early to learn the art of making someone feel special. Start by being a good friend.
This was so lovely and accurate. I'm not a Mom but I had a Mom, so I get it. Thanks Deenie!!
Sending hugs to you Deenie.❤️ I’m so sorry for the tragic loss of your Mom. Jaime’s Mom ❤️ Mollie