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.
via GIPHY
Obviously the best way to honor your feelings is to copy something you saw on TV. Solid thinking. Super. Duper. Solid.
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(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.
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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.
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This is totally how I would grieve with Prince Harry.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
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:
via GIPHY
Was that enough space? No? Okay, here is some more:
via GIPHY
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.
via GIPHY
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.
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:
via GIPHY
Was that enough space? No? Okay, here is some more:
via GIPHY
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.
via GIPHY
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.
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