I never know what to say today - my mother's birthday. It is the one day of the year that I find myself at an absolute loss for words.

This feeling creeps up throughout the month of March each year. The week of International Women's Day, I find myself with mixed emotions as the anniversary of her death creeps up on me, yet guided instead by celebrations of women. By today, mid-March, Easter weekend, springtime, I am at a loss for words.

I don't know how to celebrate, or how to mourn. I don't know what to do, what is appropriate after 7 years. We are not taught this as children, growing up, how to react in the years after a parent dies.

My reaction is interesting considering that my mother was not one who ever was at a loss for words. Or, if she wasn't entirely sure how to react, she masked it with a completely appropriate reaction to the outside world. She was compelled and driven by "appearances sake" and reacted appropriately, or how she thougt people would like. She always had something to say, which masked her own insecurities in life.

Still, my mother never taught me how to react in situations such as this - when her own mother died, she would be filled with emotion on her birthday, but the anniversary of her death was never mentioned in the years that came later. If she remembered it, it was in the solitude of her own skin and emotion as she battled her own depression year after year. Emotion overtook her on aregular basis, but she kept it hidden.

My remember my mother's birthday scattered throughout the years - going for brunch in the morning, when we were older. Or attempting to cook for her when we were much younger. Celebrating it with a moms and kids trip to Disneyland with some close friends, and searching with my best friend for a gift to give her that year while we were away in california. It was always something of her choosing - what we would do, and it would involved all of us as a family, those of us who loved her most. Her last birthday, with the two of us at odds and barely speaking, we went for brunch together. I don't remember at all what I gave her that year, and rather remember vividly wishing I was anywhere but with her, and trying so hard to keep my own appearances, to give her what I knew she wanted - the appearance of us being happy with one another. It was only after her death, in reading letters she had written and journal entries, did I learn how I succeeded that last birthday o fhers - how she wrote of her beautiful daughter, who she knew was still upset with her, but how she felt that we were on the verge of becoming friends once again. How proud she was of me, and of that moment, and the hope it brought her. While I know that feeling did not last - the hope - and in reality, we did not become friends again, I am filled with both confusion and gratitude that she thought for even a moment that it might be true. And also with gratitude for myself, that there was a moment when my mother wanted us to be friends again.

No mother-daughter relationship is perfect, and its amazing that years after one's mother passes, she can still have such a huge, intense affect on our lives - how we live, how we learn, how we guide our lives.

My mother's birthday each year is a reminder of two things for me - that she lived, and that I want to celebrate her, and also that she is no longer here, and that there will be no more celebrations with her. It reminds of how I continue to age, and how she never will. It reminds me of the person she was, and each year of the person that I want to be - someone that she would've been proud of, and someone who would've been proud to show myself - my true self - to my mother.

An ongoing journey, but today, I am reminded of it all.

In sisterhood, Leisha

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Sarah Eddenden said:

My mother turned 80 on March 23. I called her to wish her happy birthday. Thank you for making me see how lucky I am for that-never to take it for granted-even when she drives me crazy. I will forever miss her when she is gone (can't even begin to think about it). very touching.

March 25, 2008 | url