Dear Mom,
I miss you.
We're in the hospital right now... the doctor said, "It's showtime."
I know you're here too... your youngest daughter giving birth to her youngest daughter... but I still wish you were here. I love this picture of us together right after I was born. ♡
They made me take off the necklace you gave me, but I still have it with me.
I love you Mom. I can't wait to tell you all about it.
We'll talk more later... but for now, it's showtime. ♡
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
It’s pouring outside again. We’ve been getting flash flood alerts off and on for weeks… the rain hasn’t eased up much in between either. You’d probably hate it here. I don’t usually mind it, though. I used to love the rain.
I feel sad a lot… and hate trying to come up with reasons that ‘make more sense’ for people to hear… ones that are also true... dreary weather… pregnancy blues… the overwhelming discomfort of these last weeks before the baby is here… lack of sleep… all more palatable than, “I just really miss my Mom and don’t always know how to compartmentalize the emotions in a way that keeps me behaving sociably”. It’s not even one of those things that you can just ‘talk out’. There’s only so much someone can say—and even then, it doesn’t really help.
I wouldn’t know what to say to me either… so I try not to put other people into the situation where they have to try to figure out what to say to make it seem better… which leads to self-isolation… and the resulting guilt from inadvertently distancing myself from everyone in an effort to spare them from grief… “it’s probably just the pregnancy hormones” … I try to convince myself, too.
“Rainy Days and Mondays” came on. You loved this song. The Carpenters. It fits. I used to think your singing voice sounded a lot like hers. You were just more self-conscious. I blame the nuns.
This morning marked Aria’s 100th day of school for this year. Her teacher said they could dress up like they’re 100 years old. You remember her outfit last year… the flowery/lace-collared mustard-colored dress with matching white sweater, big pearls, powder-haired bun, babushka, clip-on earrings, and round tortoise-shell glasses… She didn’t want to do that this year. She was going to wear a dress, the necklace, and the costume glasses, but she opted out of them saying, “I know Nonnie wasn’t 100 years old, but she didn’t wear glasses except for reading, so I’m not going to wear them today either.” They think about you a lot.
Nothing is the same anymore... not even the rain. I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
“Pookie”
Dear Mom,
I'm missing you so darn much today... even worse the closer and closer it gets to your youngest granddaughter being here.
They say babies can hear in the womb, so I've been trying to 'teach' Norah her name, talking to her, reading to her, and singing to her... just a few more weeks to go yet--if she can even stay in that long... she's really trying to make her debut early like I did.
I started singing her the "Norah" version of the "Pookie Pie" lullaby you wrote for me as a baby... and then customized for each of your grandchildren... I could almost hear you singing it with me... I remember as a child how soothing it was (even though you'd always make fun of your own voice)... and when you rocked Machaela to sleep with the very same lullaby... Aria too... I still have little video clips of those precious moments safely tucked away in my memories... I broke down. I couldn't even finish the song. I'm sorry.
I miss you so much I can't stand it.
Love always,
"Pookie"
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Pookie Pie lullaby
Little one, don't you cryMommy loves Pookie
Daddy does tooJenny does
Trissy does
Grammy and Nana do
We all love Pookie,
Pookie too.
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...you made sure we never felt unloved.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 