Remembering My Mother

Today, it has been 10 years since my mother died. I have done a good job of keeping myself busy this week, trying to avoid what I call my “first week of February fog.” There were all kinds of athletics events at school, plus practice, so most nights I didn’t get home until 9:00 and if I got home earlier I went straight to the gym. However, every time I got in my car to drive home with a few minutes to myself to think, I started feeling like I was underwater. It was hard for me to breath and hold my tears back. Not because I felt sorry for myself, but because living 10 years without a mother sounded impossible when I was 15. Back then, I wasn’t even sure if I could last a day.

This has been the longest and shortest 10 years of my life. I remember everything I did ten years ago on February 4^th, 2002 but at the same time, everything in between gets a little fuzzy. A lot has changed and happened. I have changed and my life is happening.

On this 10 year anniversary, as we speak, a copy of my dad’s book called The Red Jacket is in the mail to me. His book is about my mom and it is short stories about her, and my dad, and about me so I can remember who I am when I have trouble. It is hard for me to express how much I love my dad for writing this book for me. Even if no one ever reads, even if I can never read it without crying, having these memories written down makes them concrete because it is easy for me to question if the ones in my head are real.

I clearly don’t have as much discipline as my dad to write an entire book, but my blog is just as therapeutic. This is one of my memories.

When I was about 6 or 7 my mom was really into taking Jazzercise classes at the community center in Half Moon Bay. I remember going with her to the classes a few times and watching her do aerobic dancing for an hour while I pretended to color. I was always too shy to join because I felt like it was her place. She smiled the whole time dancing to songs by New Kids on the Block and Janet Jackson. She knew everyone in the class. I remember her covered in sweat, but she didn’t care because she was having a great time with her Jazzercise community.

Fast-forward about 15 years, and I now take aerobic dance classes up to 4 times per week. I often see mother daughter pairs in class, the daughters being about my age. They giggle between songs, talk about their day, and it looks so cool to have a hobby that they do together. I wish I had a mother daughter relationship like that. I know my mom would love Zumba, the Jazzercise of the 2000’s. After feeling a little sorry for my loss and doing some thinking, I realized my love for dance and moving and being healthy comes from my mom. I always stand in the front row and smile no matter what. I say hi to all the class regulars and look forward to seeing them. Like mother, like daughter.

I think I have done more growing up in the last year than I have since my mom died. I don’t know exactly what it is, but when I turned 25 I felt ready to be more adult-like with a job and responsibilities. Ten years is a long time, but I feel freer and more confident than last year. It is like I crossed a bridge I never noticed I needed to cross. Maybe I needed a bit of an extended childhood to travel, play, and figure myself out because I was faced with adult feelings and problems early.

One of my friends asked me the other day “Why are you so busy all the time? What kind of void are you filling?”

This question made me think. I have a job that I love and sometimes I work crazy hours a week. I rarely have a weekend to myself, but this doesn’t bother me because I look forward to them. I live a full and happy life, even though once a year I am reminded that a huge part of me is empty. It hurts. And then it goes away. I am not filling a void. I am being me. A motherless daughter with a dad who means the world to me, a stepmom and sister who I can’t imagine my life without, and a whole life of adventures in front of me. That doesn’t sound like someone who is trying to compensate all the time.

Most importantly, I miss you mom, on the 4^th and every day, but thank you for your spirit. In the short 15 years I knew you, I think it rubbed off on me.

Here’s to the next 10.