When we lived in New York, I was a half hour from my mom. Now we are a plane ride away. And I’m really feeling her absence.
I don’t have a typical mother.
She has 3 masters degrees and a PhD. And she once remarked about a gorgeous bouquet on my counter. It was a strainer full of radishes.
She is incredibly well read.
She has spilled coffee and coffee grains so many times in my home that I banned her from making coffee.
She has no knowledge of pop culture unless it has made its way to public radio.
Even though my tween is so over Justin Bieber. My mother isn’t.
At the age of 12, I told my mom I would do my own laundry because she had ruined so many of my clothes.
At the age of 42, I fired her from folding my kids’ clothes (and I have five kids) because she seemed intent on folding them into weird little crooked shapes. She refused. And kept folding.
She is one of those people who can sleep at night with their cabinets wide open.
She is incredibly compassionate.
She loves her dogs as much as she loves her friends. And that’s a lot.
She doesn’t notice dog hair.
She once told me my newborn baby looked like her dog. It was a compliment.
The back of her car often looks like she’s holding a tag sale. She’s not.
She is a survivor.
She has unbelievable determination.
She believes the best in people.
She thinks 89-year-old George Bush is young.
She can make me completely crazy. In about two minutes.
And I miss her making me crazy.
I miss her purse, with the ink stains and millions of plastic bags hanging out of it.
And her other bag with 50 pounds of reading material.
I miss the way she folds the laundry into weird little crooked shapes. Because that means she’s been with us. Shuffling around our home, spilling coffee grains and loving everyone here.