Sunday, May 13, 2018

Mother's Day Is a Bummer...So Let's Talk About Something Else

If it's near Mothers' Day and you're feeling mad/sad, you have come to the right place. Here is where I hold space for you to be angry at the over-commercial overwhelmingness of celebrating a day that reminds you that your mom is gone. Or reminds you that you miss your baby. Or reminds you that the patriarchy is hell bent on convincing you that you can’t fully express yourself without having a baby.

Mother’s Day is a bummer.  Go ahead, wallow. I got you.

But if this year, you are looking for something different, I also got you.

Let's talk about mermaids and our matrilineal line.

Last week, I returned to mermaid camp and spent many days dipping in the fountain of youth, basking in the company of boss-sauce older broads who know all the secrets of life. It's a sorority of sirens. It was also an inter-generational gold mine of knowledge, love and community.

"Try to swim upstream," they said, and laughed when I wore myself out swimming to nowhere.

"Now, hike up the sandbar, and float back to us."

So I mermaid-crawled through the sun-sparkled crystal-clear current, exerting no energy, letting myself be carried and supported by spring water that had shot through a vent that had been shaped into a spiral over the past million-or-so years. When I was finished floating, I put my feet down and let the river push against my belly as it rushed past me. It was never going to end. It would flow around me forever.  I thought, This feels like love. 

The spring water came from a place so deep within the earth, it might be a hundred years old by the time it reached me. That also feels like love.

When we have a complicated relationship to mothers/motherhood, it can feel like we have somehow been cheated or robbed of the amount of love we were supposed to garner in our lifetime. Some part of us has been cut off. When it comes to mother-love, we are like toddlers with no sense of object permanence. If we can't see them, can we prove that they love us still? Does our love for them cease to be significant when we have no physical presence to lavish it upon?

After mermaid camp, I laid on my acupuncturist’s table, waterlogged and dreamy, trying to settle my inner ear and ground myself from swimming off into the deep blue forever.

I thought about my grandmother, and her mother. In my meditation, I thought of their love like liquid gold, filling a bucket and pouring down a trough into the next generation, like a Rube Goldberg machine of maternal affection. At each generation, my ancestors stopped to pick out the impurities, the sticks and rocks that clouded the gold, removing their burdens and passing onto me their love, their talents, their wealth, their devotion. At the bottom, I swam in a large cauldron of gold, dunking the roots of my ideas in their gold and planting an orchard of golden shower trees. Here is everything we have. Make something, they said.

Before you were born, your mother's mother loved you. Before you were born, your great-grandmother loved you. Before you were born, your great-grandmother's great-grandmother loved you. And on and on and on and on, back to the time when we were dust hitchhiking on an asteroid.

Without knowing when you would arrive, or who you would become, they loved you. Somewhere deep in your DNA, there are molecules of love from generations past that carry that love, anchoring it in the deepest core of your being. You can lose an arm, a leg, a job, a spouse, a credit rating, a house, even your dignity. They will love you still.

Generations past, through whatever fortune and misfortune your ancestors mucked through, YOU were the hope, the spark of an idea, the thing they toiled for, the person they loved although they would never meet you.

Love is a time-traveller. Like ancient starlight, it is shining down on you today.

I thought about the river. What wars had I been raging unnecessarily? Where had I been "swimming upstream" when all I had to do was let myself be held? When is it my job to hike to meet the current, and when is it my job to float?

I have a therapist who is so kind sometimes I wonder if what she is doing is therapy, or just being incredibly nice. It doesn't matter. Kindness is rehabilitative. One day, I cried on her couch while she sang me a lullaby. It was cheesy, and I wanted to argue with the song. Instead, I relaxed. I let myself be carried by her kindness.

Back to those mermaids I swam with in the ancient spring, and a secret I learned from the fountain of youth.

At some point, we experienced love as a deluge. We think if we aren't near the source, then it doesn't exist. That's like fighting the current. The truth is that you have always been loved, and continue to be loved, by forces unseen, unknown and yet to come.

Your job is to float. Your job is to open to kindness, and pass that down river. Your job is to make something of what your ancestors rain down upon you.

The best thing to make out of love is more of the same.

Happy Mother's Day to all you love-makers.


I don't always write about dead moms, but I love it when I do. I am the Fairy Boss Mother of Cinderlya romance novelist and a transformational coach.  Sign up for my mailing list, and I'll make sure you know about everything else I do.

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Happy Dead Mom Day: Other Sh*t We Inherit

Happy Dead Mom Day! It's a big one, kittens. It's #26 for me, and it's #20 for Prince William and Prince Harry. Happy Dead Mom Day to my #1 royal boos.

Today, I want to talk about all the stuff we inherit that doesn't fit in a storage unit. Remember my storage unit? Cleaning that out uncovered a whole dust storm of emotional baggage I didn't even know I was carrying! Because it was invisible! My mom itemized all the family china but no one gave me a purchase order for all the feelings that came with it! Wild, right?

So, now I go to thurrr-apy. That's when you go to therapy but you are embarrassed to let people know that you are reckoning with the tendermost parts of your life, so you call it "thurrr-apy" so it sounds like syrup and therefore goes down sweeter.

I also went to the exhibit of Diana's dresses at Kensington Palace. Wow, Prince William and Prince Harry's dead mom storage unit is A++ double luxury! They have a lot more people to help them sift through the her stuff. I hope they have someone to help them sift through the invisible shit too.

I liked looking at all the beading, and the sequins, and remembering that one time Princess Diana danced with John Travolta. The exhibit was airy, well-lit, orderly. That is not usually the case with our internal life.

Here are some things you might have packed inside your emotional baggage:
  1. reactionary habits
  2. behavioral patterns
  3. your pain
  4. your ancestors' pain
  5. shame
  6. guilt
  7. rage
  8. rage
  9. rage
  10. fear
  11. more rage
If, like me, you carry these things, baby, you are packing some intense heat! Like Game of Thrones ice dragon heat! Damn, girl!

But since you are an ice dragon, you can melt the ice wall that is keeping you from your freest self.

You didn't select this emotional baggage. You filled this internal storage unit with stuff from other people. This stuff was given to you by people who thought they were protecting you, or who were protecting themselves. Sometimes we are just the bystanders when other people are working out their shit. Sometimes that shit got worked out on us. Sometimes we hold onto that shit so we can stay close to the people we love.

It is hard to lose people. It is also hard to give away what you don't need. But it cuts to keep it, like snuggling a teddy bear made of chainsaws.

Will, Harry, strangers on the internet, we're not keeping stuff anymore, mmkay?

Just like I gave away two dozen fine dining sets to charity, we can release all the other stuff too. I don't motherfucking care if that china was hand-painted in Italy, the emotional pattern doesn't work for me, OKAY! (I kept the champagne glasses. Their sweetness will do just fine.) Let the rest go, even when your fingers ache to call it all back.

Konmari your emotional storage. What does not spark joy, what no longer works for your life, give it away. Surrender it to the the sky, or dump the haggard monsters and dust bunnies of your heart into the ocean, like ashes, let it float away.

Hand back the pain they burdened us to carry.

You might have a moment of regret, watching it go. It is easier to let the rain fall on us than make the effort to fix the roof.

It's important that we do fix the roof. It was leaking, for fuck's sake.

You can live with a full heart. You can forge new tools, learn new customs. Invent the love you want. Build from mud the home, village, heart that can truly shelter you.

One more story:

I had rough day earlier this summer. I picked two goddess cards: Vesta and Guinevere.

The message: clean your house, love is coming.

Oh god, I thought. Do I have to mop? And reactivate my account?

In the shower, the answer came to me.

Clean your emotional house, self-love is coming.

Move through the dark and dusty corners. Make room for the light to shine in.


Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Happy Dead Mom Day #25: Going Dark

Happy Dead Mom Day #25! Our mom has been dead for so long, she could rent a car! WHERE IS MY CORPORATE SPONSORSHIP? I'm looking at you, Avis, Alamo, Hertz, whomever! My mom died, I should get a free car!

Today I was going to write you a long post about things I've been thinking about since we cleaned out my mom's storage unit. BUT, I'm not going to do that this year. This year, my sister and I are going dark.

What is going dark? I don't know. I just know that my sister saw it on Gilmore Girls. I guess Luke takes a day every year and disappears and that day is also the anniversary of his father's death. We agreed that this is a fantastic plan, and so today, WE ARE GOING DARK.


Obviously the best way to honor your feelings is to copy something you saw on TV. Solid thinking. Super. Duper. Solid.

(No, not Poldark, GOING dark.)

It's actually very hard to take a Dark Day. We are both super busy boss ladies with a lot of commitments and responsibilities. Other people, and even ourselves, will try to convince us to arrange our dark day to a more convenient time. But that is the whole point.

Death cannot be rescheduled. Grief has its own timetable. Leave us alone, our mom is dead.


There is another point. We were children when we lost our mom. We followed what the adults thought was best, and we coped as best as we could. Now, as grown-ass women, we can mourn and cope however we want to. Maybe we will wear caftans. Maybe we will wear pink lipstick. Maybe we will organize bookshelves. If the weather reports are true, one of us may be hunkering down through a tropical hurricane. Maybe we will get drunk. Maybe we will listen to Tina Turner. Maybe we will light candles. Maybe we will just be dark.

Maybe it will be dramatic. Maybe it won't. Whatever it is, our mom is dead, and we're doing this our way.

Royal Report: Happy Dead Mom Day, Prince Harry and Prince William!  Prince Harry is also sad. We should go to therapy together. And by therapy, I mean a castle in Scotland where we lie by the fire lick champagne off of each other's bodies. That sounds like a great plan for Dark Day.

This is totally how I would grieve with Prince Harry.

Friday, May 6, 2016

Mothering for the Motherless on Mother's Day

Hello, dear.

I see you, squinting through the blue glare of your screen. Perhaps you found me by Googling, "I have a dead mom." Perhaps you googled "dead mom + Mother's Day." Or perhaps you are one of my 5 devoted fans who checks this blog on my twice annual Official Days of Posting: Mother's Day, and Happy Dead Mom Day. (Protip: the exact way NOT to have a successful blog is to only post twice a year, but my mom is dead, so I run my life however I want to.) Anyway, however you found yourself here, welcome!

If you have lost your mom, or for any reason Mother's Day makes you sad, angry, bereft, vengeful, anti-social, depressed, rage-filled or baffled, or any combination of those feelings, this place is for you. Here, I will even hold some space for all of your complicated feelings:


Was that enough space? No? Okay, here is some more:


Better? I hope so. Now let's get on with what I want to say in honor of this Mother's Day.

1) It turns out, writing twice annually about your dead mom is not a comprehensive mental health plan. Therefore, I have begun going to therapy. I love it. I love my therapist. I love that she is appropriately awed by the epic scope of my personal history and feelings. Once a week, I go to her office and let my teary, befuddled, complex freak flag fly.

  via GIPHY

Therapy is good. Go get some. I also like tarot, acupuncture, restorative yoga, goddess circles, naps and a finely chilled rosé drunk at a bustling sidewalk café. Go get yourself some healing, friend. Leave the desert island you have strapped yourself to and seek out what nourishes you. Grow those seeds into mountains. Climb those mountains. Feast on the possibilities of your life.

2) What is terrible about losing a mother is that there is first absence, second adaptation. We become accustomed to not feeling mothered. It is painful. It is a secondary kind of grief. We become angry when we realize this part of our lives is gone. We are jealous of those who have it. We remember it, and yet we forget what it feels like.


But it doesn't have to be this way.

Last Thanksgiving, I attended a "Friendsgiving" dinner. My host's mother was there, cooking 20 pounds more turkey than we could eat. At the end of the night, she sent me home with a grocery bag full of leftovers. "Wait a few minutes," she said, disappearing back into the kitchen. I didn't request my Uber. She returned, carrying a Tupperware full of fresh gravy that she had whipped up in those moments, just for me. I felt mothered.

I taught my dad how to use Facetime on his new iPhone. On my birthday, my dad and my stepmother used Facetime to call me. They peered into the screen, delighted and baffled to see my face. Usually, we only come face-to-face a few times a year. How wonderful to see their daughter, any day they liked. They love to see my face. I felt mothered.

I teach a creativity and mindfulness program. We spend a whole week practicing being in the moment, intentional about our time, finding ways to slow down and more fully experience our present moment. One of my students said she turned her nightly face-washing into an exercise in mindfulness, washing her face with devotion and care. That night, as I rushed through applying my face cream, I realized that I wasn't "applying" anything; I was spending 15 seconds a day slapping myself on the face. I slowed down, traced my forehead, my eyebrows, my nose. I stroked the cream across my cheekbones, and I cried. When was the last time anyone touched me gently on my face? When was the last time I treasured myself, my Self? When was the last time I marveled that I existed at all? I see my friends marvel at the wonder of their children, snuggled near them. Aren't I a marvel too?

A long time ago, my mother marveled at me. Somewhere, she marvels still. A nice lady made me special gravy. My family loves me. When I marvel at myself, when I grow what nourishes me into mountains, when I climb those mountains and marvel at the wonders of my life, I mother myself.

You can do it too.


I don't always write about dead moms, but I love it when I do. I am the Fairy BossMother of Cinderly, a romance novelist and a transformational coach.  Sign up for my mailing list, and I'll make sure you know about everything else I do.

Monday, August 31, 2015

Happy Dead Mom Day #24: A Message From Beyond

Some years are uneventful on the dead mom front. Just the customary abandonment issues and fears of an untimely death. You know, the usual. But some years, they Kick. Your. Ass. Good thing I had declared 2015 to be the year of the Grown Ass Woman, because I am here to do some Grown Ass Shit.

On January 1st, 2015, I woke up to find that somewhere between my third and ninth glass of champagne on New Year's Eve, I had emailed myself this mysterious message:
Bakarw980120. I took this to mean that sometime in the evening, I had resolved to book a session with my mystic to the stars, Bakara Wintner.  (BTW, I am the “stars” to which Bakara is a mystic. I mean, maybe she has other celebrity clients, but I am the star, obviously.) So Bakara came to my house, and gave me and my other aerial half, super famous sex icon Erin Clark, some uh-mazing readings.  Bakara dropped a lot of truthbombs and realness in the form of a beautifully illustrated and intuitive tarot reading full of grown ass woman shit. Bakara also brought a message from the beyond. “Your mother has a message for you, but she’s not going to give it to me. She wants you to talk to her.”

Guess how many things I will do to avoid a supernatural summons from my mother? All the things! I cleaned my apartment, you guys! I scrubbed the baseboards with organic lavender soap! I opened all my mail! I crossed off errands that had been on my to-do list since 2008!  And in all this avoidance activity, I found the thing my mom wanted to talk to me about. And I did not want to talk about it. At all.

"It" was a set of cassette tapes my mom had recorded before she died, and I had been hiding them in my desk for about seven years. I did not want to listen to them. What if they held information I couldn’t handle? What if she told me I wasn’t really her daughter, that I’d been switched at birth, or that she knew on which date the world was going to end, or that Prince William was actually my secret brother so our future marriage would be a case of incest, and not in a creepy-hot Flowers in the Attic way? What if listening to those tapes was more painful than losing her? No wonder I wanted to AVOID ALL THE THINGS!

A few days later, I was thinking about my mom when I passed a sign that had her name on it, in hot pink lettering. Fine, Mom, if you’re going to write it in pink, I will go home and listen to your stupid tapes. UGH. So, somewhere in the dregs of my apartment, I found an old Walkman, and some batteries, and I snot-cried all over everything while I tried to remember how to rewind a cassette tape. WHY MUST MY GRIEF BE SO ANALOG???? And I listened to the tapes. One was a sweet, rambling oral history of our family in which she revealed several things that I will most definitely put in a novel. And the second tape, which I feared would contain the real bomb, was actually THE BOMB. It was a tape full of Tina Turner’s country album from 1974, plus assorted hits circa 1986. That was my mom’s message from beyond.

My dead mom was on a roll, so she didn’t stop there. She sent me some diamond rings in the mail, rings I had left at a jeweler for 7 years, for, I don’t know, safe keeping? Let’s be real, I did not leave them at the jewelers for safe keeping, I left them because I did not want to deal with my shit.  Then, a few months later, I received what I like to call “My Box of Feelings” – a random package from my brother which contained the journals my mom kept while she was pregnant with me. Did I hide that box under my bed? No, I sat down, and I read those journals.  I dealt with my shit, and I learned about 40 million things which I will also put in a novel. The title of this novel, BTW, will be “Shit So Crazy I Can’t Make It Up So I Pretended It Was Fiction,” and I will sell it on Amazon for $7.99, so you should get Amazon Prime now so you can get that book shipped to you for free.

Since my dead mom had done such an excellent job of preparing me to deal with my shit, and showing me the rewards inherent in dealing with my shit, like diamond rings, expanded musical knowledge and a gold mine of  “artistic inspiration,” I decided it was time to deal with the real shit: my mother’s storage unit. For about 14 years, my siblings and I have shared a storage unit of stuff a moving company had packed for us, full of our mom’s belongings. We didn’t really even know what was in there, but I kept paying the bill for it because writing checks is easier than dealing with my shit.  But no longer! I am a Grown Ass Woman!! So I flew to Hawai’i, and my little sister and I rented a U-Haul, and we dealt with our mom’s shit.

Grown Ass Women drive big vans using their muscles and mermaid powers.
You know what’s a lot?  Physically handling your dead mom’s shit after 24 years.  I mean, if you want an exercise in sifting through what matters to you, store a bunch of sentimental items for a few decades, and then physically unwrap every piece of it and see how you feel about it then. I graduated from a box of feelings to a storage unit of feelings. And my primary feeling was this: Who needs this shit????? So we gave it all away. Except for the good silver. We sold that so we can shop at Anthropologie.

At 3am the following morning, I woke up in a panic. Because I gave all my mom’s shit away. I dealt with her shit, and then I threw it all away. See, what I had been storing in that unit was the idea that maybe someday, I could be surrounded by her things again, and then I would be surrounded by her again. But that time has passed. That place is no more. And twelve boxes of wedding china cannot bring her back to me.  But I can wear her rings, and look at her pictures, and read her journals, and feel my feelings, because that is where she lives now. We carry the people we love with us, we are their forever home.

So, to the Princes William and Harry, and to the rest of us on this Dead Mom Day, I want to tell you that if you are storing a Buckingham Palace full of your shit, empty it out. Deal with it. You will find a few treasures, but most of it you don’t need. Take the things that no longer serve you, thank them for whatever comfort they brought you, then donate the good stemware so someone else can use it, and throw out the rest.

Princess Diana says deal with your shit so you have room to dance!
We are only on this planet for so long, and we must keep our spaces clear for the real valuables, for the things that are actually precious to us. Like a bomb-ass Tina Turner tape.

I don't always write about dead moms, but I think it's fun when I do. If you want to see what else I have going on, follow me on Twitter or Facebook.

Sunday, May 10, 2015

What I Got My Dead Mom For Mother's Day

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother’s Day! Sorry I didn’t get you a card, or a spa trip. How about a blog post?

In the past few days, I’ve seen a lot of articles in which famous women write letters to their mothers or daughters, and I was like I WILL NOT BE MADE TO FEEL INADEQUATE IN MY CELEBRITY JUST BECAUSE I HAVE A DEAD MOM. So, here’s a letter to you. Prepare to be dazzled by my literacy! Sorry I broke with tradition and wrote this on a computer and not with three different crayons on a white wall.

Some things I’d like to tell you:

1) Now that you’re dead, you don’t have to deal with the American healthcare system, so let me fill you in on how it’s going for me. I got an IUD this week. (Don’t be scared. They’ve improved a lot since the ‘70s. The nice lady even did an ultrasound afterwards to show me that she had not perforated my uterus, therefore she did not accidentally render me sterile. I thought that was very considerate.) The insertion was more painful than I had thought it would be, so I distracted myself by thinking angry thoughts about the patriarchy and how no man ever has to take a day off when he wants to be proactive about contraception or purposeful about parenthood. You’re probably saying to yourself: Daughter, why are you writing about your contraceptive choices on the internet? This blog is supposed to be about me! But I have a point, Mom, and that point is militant feminism.

Dead Mom and Uterus-Owner, Princess Diana, gets it.
My heath insurance company informed me that it wouldn’t cover any contraception, not even the Pill. It also wouldn’t cover my annual mammogram, which, as you know, I have to get because of you. Thanks, Mom! Breast cancer is the family party that just won’t stop! When I told the receptionist at my gynecologist’s office that my insurance wouldn’t cover any contraception, she made a noise that I interpreted as “Oh, hell no,” put me on hold and then told me the nurse had approved me for their secret stash of free IUDs. Woohoo! Take that, patriarchy! Then, I called the billing department of the radiology center, and told that nice lady that my health insurance refused my appeal for coverage of my mammogram. That nice lady also made a “Oh, hell no” kind of sound, and said something mysterious about sending me a new bill. That new bill had miraculous $1,900 discount on it, next to the words “charity care.” I guess that means I have the breasts of Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol

SO, since it seems like my healthcare needs can only be met by divine intervention and the grace of medical office receptionists/goddesses, I can only assume you had a hand in all of that miracle-working. Thanks for being a militantly feminist guardian dead mom angel! I am now 99% less likely to make you the dead grandmother of the love child of some ginger bartender/ex-Soviet spy (#dreamman), and my boobs are clear for another year! Happy Mother’s Day to you! 

If my lady parts had an Instagram, their bio would read, “Militant feminism is giving me life! #iud #mammogram #onfleek” And then they’d take a selfie with Barbie at Coachella. You probably don’t understand anything I just said, but don’t sweat it. Being dead means you don’t have to keep up with everything. You’re too cool for that. (Get it? Get it? Too soon?)
The only thing better than a militant feminist is a ROYAL militant feminist.
2) So, Mom, now you know that I am not giving you a love child for Mother’s Day. BUT, I am giving you something better! It is my pleasure to inform you that on behalf of the United Kingdom and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, you are the future dead step-grandmother of a princess! 

Sometimes I can’t believe Prince William’s timing. He married Duchess First Wife the weekend of my 31st birthday. At first I was offended, but then I realized his marriage anniversary is actually a secret, elaborately coded message of love. And now that William has produced a baby princess THE DAY AFTER MY 35th BIRTHDAY, I know his love is true. He might as well have handed me a birthday card that says, "Hey girl, I know your eggs are on the downtown train to No-ville. Don't worry. I got this. You just do you."

That’s right, Mom, I am the future stepmother of a princess! Happy Birthday to me, and Happy Mother’s Day to you! It’s like we are living in our very own fairytale! We just need a magic mirror and a bad attitude and our story will be complete! I don’t know what your title will be. Maybe something like Dead Queen Mother? I’ll have to research the appropriate honorifics for dead moms. If you see Princess Di, ask her what she thinks. 

The best part is that now that William has created an heir and a spare, he and I will be able to live out our lives on a yacht, devoted only to each other. Right now he has to live for his country, but once his patriotic obligations have been fulfilled, he’ll be able to live only for me. Here is a picture of our little Princess Charlotte Elizabeth Diana. You’ll notice that her name contains some of the same letters that are in mine! More secret love codes!
Sleeping Beauty's First Public Appearance.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! You’re the best, even when you’re dead.

Love, Laura

p.s. I know you don’t know what You Tube is, but Tina Turner is on it, so I think you’d like it.

Greetings to everyone who finds this blog by Googling "I have a dead mom."
I don't always write about dead moms, but I think it's fun when I do. If you want to see what else I have going on, follow me on Twitter or Facebook.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Happy Mother's Day to All of Our Dead Moms

Happy Mother's Day to my dead mom and yours!!!!

A few weeks ago, my friend Kate took me to see the sublime RadhaMUSprime at Joe's Pub. You may not have heard of her, but she is awesome. Anyone who starts their show with the line, "YO WHERE MY PERIOD AT?" is okay by me. You should definitely watch the video at the bottom of this post, but first I want to talk about RadhaMUSprime and how she is like a safety flare guiding us through the dark night of this Mother's Day holiday.

Because I see you on the other side of this screen, hate-reading Mother's Day cards and blog posts and all the tributes on your Facebook feed. And I understand that you might want to throw your computer out the window because sometimes having a dead mom can feel like someone poked a hole in your floaties right before dropping you off in the deep end. Maybe you feel like singing this:

But it doesn't have to be that way. Girl, I got you.

Because the other important thing to know about RadhaMUSprime (and excuse me if I get these details kind of wrong, because I heard them during her show while chugging a $14 glass of rosé so I may not have been listening with my most sober ears): the way I heard it, RadhaMUSprime turned 40 the year her mom passed, and it was ROUGH. So what did RadhaMUSprime decide she needed to do? She decided to launch her hip-hop career. BAD. ASS. Don't mess with daughters of dead moms, amirite?

In RadhaMUSprime we trust.
Let that be a lesson to us all: When life gives you a dead mom, go out and get famous. Boom!

At the end of the show, RadhaMUSprime performed a song in front of her mother's picture. I was on my third glass of overpriced rosé, and I was feeling it. And by feeling it, I mean I was crying and clutching my sternum while trying to look hip, like oh what a poetic voice I really enjoy this fresh, provocative talent cough cough excuse me while I rip my heart from my chest and burn it to ashes. What I mean is, she got me. And because I was three drinks in I can't recall all the words except this line, which I wrote down in my iPhone during the curtain call:

Let love flow instead of leak.

There was also a bit she said about stop complaining and live all the dreams your dead moms can't. That got me too, because like I said last time, I'm just a few years out from my mom's age at diagnosis, and plenty of times I wonder how much longer I have to live out any of my dreams, or my mother's dreams. What were her dreams, anyway? I never asked her before she died. I was too busy wanting spaghetti for dinner and crushing on my music teacher's step-son. 

The reason I wanted to share that line is that on Mother's Day, it's easy to want to stop up your heart, curl up inside yourself, and hoard your love so that no one else can have it. Because one of the things that sucks about having a dead mom is that you keep on loving them even after they're dead, and that hurts. What also hurts is watching other people get to lavish all their love on the people who are still alive to receive it, whereas your love just circles back around to yourself, digging in like a burr that stabs every time you worry it. It's easy, then, to plug up your love, so you won't feel the pain. That's a dangerous way to live. You could end up corroding your own heart, like the crumbling acid gathered on a dead battery. But it doesn't have to be like that. That doesn't have to be your life. Your life could include an amazing hip-hop career, or whatever your version of an amazing hip-hop career would be. You just have to make like RadhaMUSprime and turn your pain into poetry.

This Mother's Day, here's what I prescribe:

  • Watch RadhaMUSprime's video below.
  • Call someone else's mother. Call anyone who's mothered you, even though it wasn't their job to mother you. Call someone who just became a mother, call someone who's been a mother for decades. Wish them a very happy Mother's Day, and mean it. There's nothing like doing something nice for someone else to make you feel better about yourself. And there's nothing like reminding yourself about all the people who love you back.  Let love flow instead of leak. Do yourself a favor, and don't corrode your own heart.
  • Live your dreams, go out and get famous, or at least speak your truth. All the dreams we have for ourselves can only happen now, while we still have time to make them. Your dead mom will be so proud of you.

If all that fails to comfort you, write some really amazing/awful dead mom poetry, and share it here. We can't all be RadhaMUSprime, but we can still rhyme! (See what I did there? You're welcome. You are so pretty.)


 fyov teaser final from Radha Blank on Vimeo.


I don't always write about dead moms. If you want to see what else I do, follow me on Twitter or Facebook.