When I lost my mom in June of 2012, I was certain my familiarity with grief would shore me up. I knew how to breathe through the panic. I knew how to distract myself from the ache. I knew which books to read when I couldn’t sleep and which music to play when I couldn’t think. I knew how to blink to dry up unexpected tears, and I knew how to sit still when the weight of loss bore down. I knew how to ride the wave of grief: how to hunker down, how to hold on. I knew all these things, and yet, this fresh new loss ripped me open every morning.
I phoned my mom almost every day. We often chatted about my three children, potty training and lost teeth, bruised knees and bruised feeling. Over the years, we talked about recipes and vacations, crazy neighbors and bills. We talked about broken cars, broken bones, broken marriages. We laughed a lot and sometimes I would call just to cry. To cry over the challenges life had thrown my way. And I felt better. I felt better just talking to my mom.
I recently had dinner with my neighbor, Katie. “I don’t know what to do with myself,” I said. “I pace the kitchen and stare at the phone. I keep waiting for her to call.”
“Why don’t you take the time you would normally call your mom and write in a journal?”
Hmmmm? That was something to think about.
A few days later, I met with a writer friend of mine. I repeated my dilemma to her.
“Start a blog,” Heidi said. “You should call it Stories for My Mom.”
. . . And so my blog is born. A place to hold my grief and my stories. A place to remember my mom. (and a place to thoroughly embarrass my children and my husband)