A Decade Without Grandma

Just before my mother lost the ability to communicate, she told me that she was proud of the mother I am; that I am a good mother.  It was out of character for her to praise like that.  She was more of constructive criticizer by nature, with a very loving, well intentioned heart.  But I think she knew things were about to go very downhill, and she didn’t want to leave me without saying those words.  And those words, from her, were gold.  To this day, “You’re a good mother” is my most cherished compliment.  Her words ring in my head often and have pealed me off the floor in some of my darkest parenting moments. 

I have a horrific memory of one of my mother’s last days on her death bed.  We had reached that hopeless point where we were left with no hope and could only pray for the peace and comfort of death for her.   She was suffering but clinging to what little life she had left.  She was fighting so hard for her every breath and her body was writhing in discomfort.  I hugged her and cried and begged her to let go.  I whispered in her ear, telling her it was ok to go.   “Madeline is going to be ok.  I promise.”  Madeline was her beloved first grandchild/best friend/new found reason for living.  And suddenly, she seemed to stop fighting quite so hard.  She let her guard down and seemed to raise her white flag before dying in the wee hours of the next morning.   It occured to me, in that gut wrenching moment, how badly my mother did not want to leave her grandchildren.  I was pregnant with my third child when she died, and aside from how very much she cherished her grandbabies and deserved to soak up the utopia of grandparenthood for many, many years, and fought for that privelege, literally until her very last breath, I’m certain that a lot of that fight came from her concern for her poor daughter who was about to be in way over her head with three children.  

This spring will mark 10 years since my mother died.  I think I’ve cried at least a tear or two, every single day, since someone pointed that out to me a while back.  10 years without my safety net/lifeline, and all while taking the biggest leap and fighting the biggest battles of my life.  A decade of motherhood without our grandma.  I fantasize all the time, about having that other human on earth, who may have loved her grandchildren even more than I love them.  And I resent that she’s gone.  Her grandchildren brought her a pure joy that she had yearned for her entire life.  I so enjoyed seeing that twinkling joy in her eyes.  And I gave that to her.  I owed her grandchilren, at the very least, and I delivered.  I like to believe that I redeemed myself, just in the nick of time.  

So I cry because I resent that she’s gone and missing out on the blissful hell that is her grandchildren and the opportunity to pretend that they are all bliss and no hell, all while silently snickering about the well deserved hell we both know I’m enduring in motherhood.  

And I cry because I need help, from no one on this earth, more than my mother.  I need that one person who’s footsteps I’m following through familly  and motherhood;  That one person who taught me everything she didn’t know either but we both learned along the way.  That one person who knows my children are putting me through hell sometimes, and genuinely sympathizes, but kind of enjoys it and loves her grandchildren even more for it.  I need her.  Grandma is the only person on earth who will almost always move mountains to help in the deepest deaths of parenting hell.  And this last decade of stay at home motherhood/housewife turned divorced single mother of 4 has had me at rock bottom (God willing).  I need her.  I need that person that will support my every whole hearted (often failed) effort, and my every blind, irrational decision, all while pointing out every mistake I have made or could be making along the way (none of which I asked for and millions of which I would never even have thought of).  I need her.  My kids always accuse me of telling them how beautiful they are or that they are good at everything they attempt because I'm their mother and I HAVE TO.  I need that person.  

The other day, my dad called to tell me that I am a good mother.  He tells me two things often, “Your mother was a saint” and  “You’ve mastered the art of parenting.”  And on this day, I was a master of parenthood.  And I cried, because just the night before, I was lectruing my boys about how I have dedicated my life to,  and poured my heart into raising good, kind, positive children, and how much it hurts me when they absolutely cannot get along and respect each other despite all my efforts.  I shamelessly told them that it makes me feel like a failure and that I didn’t think I deserved that.  I could tell it tugged at their heart strings just a little bit, but not enough to actually conquer sibling rivalry.  But here was my hero dad, to save the very next day, by spontaneously calling me to echo my mother's golden words;  "You're a good mother".  And while we both know that I am more the "Jack-of-all trades, master of none" type of mother, and I’m still entirely winging it every step of the way, we also both find comfort knowing that I’m following my mother’s footsteps (and I can feel heartbeat in every step).  But I need her.  And I’m guessing I’ll need her for decades to come.   

A decade later, my mother’s precious Madeline is now 15.  She is precisely the age I was when I started being a nightmare child to my poor mother.  She is the product of every ounce of the blood sweat and tears that I have poured into motherhood, and she is a gem.   She is the lovely young daughter my mother always dreamed of, and I hope my mother knows how much of an angelic hand she has had in that.