Missing

A couple months ago, I was listening to the radio when “Sweet Caroline” started playing. It was surreal for me to experience my eyes welling up with tears before my brain even understood why. I’m not some wacky Neil Diamond fan (not that there’s anything wrong with wacky Neil Diamond fans!), you must understand. Neil Diamond just makes me think of my mom, and every once in a while it hits me, this unexpected missing.

It happened again just a week or two ago. I was mailing some packages, using the “c/o” (“care of”) abbreviation, and I suddenly vividly recalled when I’d first read that abbreviation. It was during the summer I spent with my relatives in Arizona when I was about twelve. Mom wrote to me religiously, sending not just snail mail but also photos and stickers, probably every week, “c/o the Neils.” I think I still have those letters, buried up in the attic amid a sea of other mementos I haven’t glanced at for ages. I don’t remember what I thought of those letters then, but now I’m glad to know I have them, some reminder of her.

These memories, this missing—they’re not just a missing of who she was. I miss who she wasn’t. Is that strange, to miss what never was? Like missing having brown eyes when all your life they’ve been green. Like missing all the other things you aren’t: a firefighter, a ballerina, a toxicologist (hey, a girl can have her dreams!).

I remember sitting at a midwife appointment, pregnant with my second child, reviewing family history. “It says here your mom died of breast cancer. When was that?”

I paused to think. “April 2005. Actually, almost exactly five years ago today.” It was odd to think that I hadn’t remembered the date as it passed just a few days earlier. A breath of guilt swept over me; wasn’t I supposed to remember these things?

My midwife gave me a sympathetic glance. “That’s so hard,” she said, “especially when you’re pregnant.”

Was it? I couldn’t help thinking that probably it was supposed to be. Probably I was supposed to miss the baby booties Mom would never buy for my children, the excessive pampering she would smother all over me when the baby was born. I was supposed to miss these things the way I was supposed to miss her as I’d planned my wedding, only four months after she died. I was supposed to long for endless discussions of color coordination and appetizers and china patterns and which wedding dress would minimize my bustline (as if that were even possible).

And in a way, I guess I do. But I miss them because I can’t imagine them. I would never have asked my mother’s opinion on the flower arrangements for the wedding. That just wasn’t the relationship we had. I would absolutely have barred her from the waiting room while I was in labor. I can’t imagine her at my home cooking me meals and holding the newborn so I could shower or take a nap. She was not that type of mother.

She was frustrating, tiring, upsetting, depressing. She made feel feral sometimes, a wild beast whose greatest instinct was to hide under the bed and hibernate. But she was also beautiful, generous, supportive, a dreamer, an artist, a creator. She practiced with me interminably for a spelling bee I wanted to win and she believed in me the whole time. She made me feel like I could have wings and fly. Sometimes, anyway. She was all of these things and others as well. I think, like me, she probably wished that she was more than she was. She probably missed the parts of herself that she wasn’t.

I wanted to add a picture of her to this blog post, but I realized that all my pictures of Mom are buried up in the attic as well, along with those letters and the accumulated detritus of my packrat existence. I want to go up there and find something, to bring it down to remind us all of her. I want my daughters to know her. She wasn’t perfect, but I think I believe she did her best. Some of who she was—both the good and the bad, I’m sorry to say—she handed down to me.

And so I miss her, from time to time, in these weird moments. While painting wooden shapes with my children, using the acrylics paints I inherited from her that still (amazingly!) have not dried up after all these years. When I see the inscription on the front cover of the Bible I’m still using, the one she gave me for my birthday in 1992. When I look at the date and remember that her birthday is coming up. She would be 70 today. It’s just a little pang here and there—not too often, not too overwhelming, just a reminder of what is gone for now.

I hope she looks down at me in moments like this and understands the confusion, the muddle of feelings I have for her. I hope she forgives me for the times I am angry at her or frustrated or longing for what she never was. I hope she forgives me, just as I am still forgiving her.

The Cinderella Plan

In case you were dying for a bit of frivolous short fiction, look no more! I have the solution!

Happy Birthday, Coriel!

Drum roll, please! Coriel, the brilliant, the gorgeous, the hilarious, the delightful, has lived through another fabulous year. She has been so many things this year—monkeys, babies, princesses, knights and pirates, Fancy Nancy, my mother, Addra’s mother, ponies, detectives, heroes and villains, a sister, a daughter, a friend. She has learned so much as well. Lots of writing, a bit of reading, scripture stories, far too many Dora and Diego stories, Articles of Faith, how to unload the dishes and sort laundry (sort of), how to make lemonade, how to say “spoon” instead of “foon.” The Coriel of a year ago would seem so much younger, smaller, and probably quieter than today’s Coriel. It is strange to think that five years ago she was small enough to fit inside my (admittedly ginormous) abdomen. How could she have ever been that tiny? (And yes, I know this is a terribly clichéd sort of thing to say, but too bad.)

This year during the summer, she decided she wanted a butterfly birthday party a la Fancy Nancy. Given her mercurial tendencies, I wasn’t convinced that it would stick. But it was summer, the time for buying all things butterfly-ish. So we went with it, and then from time to time we had to slightly reconvince her that this year was the butterfly year.

The party was sheer madness, let me just say. Fun, but madness. I don’t think my house was meant to hold 18 children and six to nine adults all at the same time. We sent out butterfly invitations that Coriel colored, and we hung butterflies from the ceiling (which we girls love so much I think we may never take them down). We had butterfly crafts and party favor bags. We played pin-the-stinger-on-the-bee (we extended the party outward to all insects just in case someone didn’t like butterflies—wouldn’t want to be discriminatory, you know). We played this great chrysalis game, which involved wrapping small children in streamers of toilet paper. Good times. We had hot dogs and butterfly cupcakes (thanks, Carlynne!), none of which got ground into the carpet (amazing). Coriel’s friends were all so much fun to have over—and so noisy! They were thoughtful, fun, and incredibly generous in their gift giving and their friendship. Coriel had a very hard time deciding what to play with first. Everyone left eventually with a set of antennas and some party favors (including treat bags shaped like butterflies, of course), and the house seemed so empty. But only for about five minutes, which is how long it took before the girls started pulling out every single thing that Coriel had just gotten and spreading them around the house.  Ah, the fun.

For the actual day of her birthday, she got a pretty new dress to wear to church. She had toaster strudel for breakfast and pizza for dinner. She gave a talk in Primary at church, and it was awesome. She wrote the whole thing down on a piece of paper and then she sort of “read” it: “I love missionaries. I can do missionary work now by service and kindness.” Short, to the point. Then we went home and had turkey. Yes, turkey. Our neighbors gave us one, so Brice brined it overnight (inspiring me to start singing, “O briny turkey, o briny briny…” and such) and it cooked during church. Delicious.

Now back to the birthday girl. She also got some other clothes (lots), a couple of books (including the ubiquitous Fancy Nancy), and a set of ponies. She spent the rest of the afternoon talking to them and sending them around the house on various adventures.

Now she is finally in bed, resting and dreaming silly dreams about hippos eating various bizarre objects. Tomorrow she will be another day older, sweeter, and smarter. She will also be another day wilier, crazier, and more crazy-making. We will play with her new ponies and dolls and books and art supplies and such. We will laugh wildly and she will argue with me like only a young child can. (“Coriel, it will hurt if you fall off the bed like that.” “No it won’t.” “Coriel, that dress doesn’t fit you anymore.” “Yes it does.” “Coriel, you’re driving me crazy!” “No I’m not.” That sort of thing.) We will both learn something new, and at the end of the day she’ll go to bed again and I will too, and we will each be glad for another day.

And now some pictures for your enjoyment. Placed here with very little order, poor or random formatting, and much frustration, all courtesy of Blogger.

Brice looks great with antennae!

As per usual, she ate all the frosting on top before she bothered with the cupcake at all.

Presents!

This is actually her third outfit of the day.

Our sweet neighbor Jean. Coriel insisted on taking a picture of her with the ponies.

After the chaos, Addra commandeers Coriel's doll.

If these are not enough pictures for you, here are some more:

October pics
November pics
Birthday pics

Radio Silence Begins

Hey, all. It is November. I am hereby forbidden from blogging, emailing, and Facebooking* until I get my daily writing done (thankfully, I have finished my required word count for the day). So you will not be hearing from me much. In the meantime, here is your friendly reminder to do something awesome this month.

I may or may not be checking in, but do not count on it!** :)

*We have made up an official term for this: no beffing (Blog, Email, Facebook).
**Have you noticed all the awkward use of no contractions in this post? It is because I do not want to bother with fixing the smartquotes. Someday I may get over my smartquote psychosis. But probably not.