I don't feel sadness anymore on Mother's Day. Wistful maybe. I'm incredibly touched by all the photos people share online of their mothers - All so beautiful, young and spry. Or elegant, aged and spirited. Yet all the more beautiful for the markings of time.
I think often what my Mom's life would have been like had she lived. The joy my children would bring her. The crush she would have on my husband. The coffee dates they might have. I imagine he would take her hand and guide her out the door of a coffee shop on Granville Island. "Oh Di," he might say before teasing her that he would beat her in a lasagna making contest. I imagine how much she would adore her son-in-law and how proud she would be to have "one of the good ones" as part of her expanding family tree.
I imagine the quiet moments I might have just looking at her from across the room, if she were still here. I imagine her kindness, her generosity and her unstoppable, infectious (some say hyena-like) laugh.
I imagine how soft her hair might feel if I were to run my fingers through it, should she lay her head on my lap in order that she might "rest" her eyes for just a few minutes the way she did endlessly when I was a kid.
I imagine how soft her hair might feel if I were to run my fingers through it, should she lay her head on my lap in order that she might "rest" her eyes for just a few minutes the way she did endlessly when I was a kid.
I think how much joy it would bring me to take care of her, to look out for her. To experience the simple pleasure of walking down the street with her in my neighborhood, proudly introducing her to people passing by.
Most of all, I think how much I love her. And how much I would love to thank her for the wonderful job she did being my Mom. Especially now knowing, deep in my often exhausted Ukrainian bones, what the job of being a Mother entails.
Most of all, I think how much I love her. And how much I would love to thank her for the wonderful job she did being my Mom. Especially now knowing, deep in my often exhausted Ukrainian bones, what the job of being a Mother entails.
I sometimes think it's a rip off that she didn't get to see all this; the way we turned out, the fruits of her labor. But mostly, I let my mind wander all over the maps of my imagination - an imagination she encouraged and cultivated when I was little. I think of the love she had for me that is real and true and I think of the love, respect and admiration I continue to have for her. And when my mind wanders back to this moment where I am, I feel great comfort.
Because when it comes to Moms, I had one of the good ones.
I love you Mom. You are like no other.
If you're reading this, you are loved.
Your pal,
The Happiness Detective
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