Christmas blues

It's been two years since I last heard my mother's voice and I feel like I'm still grieving.
The week leading up to her anniversary is the toughest one of the year for me. The fact that it's the week before Christmas probably isn't particularly helpful, as this time of the year wasn't really my favourite at the best of times.

My childhood Christmases were a jumble of wanting to be with one parent, while feeling guilty that you were leaving one behind. This was followed by teenage years of trying to fit everyone in, while being so stressed out I'd have to stop the car between houses and get sick. Then I moved abroad and tried to fit into other families celebrations, while Skyping my own, who were missing me terribly. The best Christmas (pre-Captain) was when I lived with a Muslim family and got to ignore the whole thing for one year. I spent Christmas day in my room watching movies, didn't get as much as a card and enjoyed the experience thoroughly.

Two years ago I travelled home for Christmas for the first time since I'd moved to Ireland. I was expecting a trip to remember, because I was carrying my extra special present. I was going back to tell my family I was expecting my first child. As I woke up in the night train, my mother called me. We talked about the plans for Christmas and how she was hoping to get home from the hospital. We talked about what I was going to cook, who we were going to see and how we would buy all the treats I had missed over the years. I asked her not to tire herself by talking too much, how we would have time when we met again. For months her voice had sounded like it was coming from deeper and deeper under water and I was trying to hold on, without making her fear she was about to drown. We hung up with a promise to see each other in a few days, and I went on my way to deliver our happy news to my dad's side of the family.

On Thursday my stepdad rang and told me he had sad news. That mom had passed away on Wednesday. I went into a shock, and besides disbelief my only thought was to protect my baby. I cried and held my bump only I could see. I went to arrange the funeral, set up the saddest Christmas and reorganise flights. The whole time feels so much longer than it was and somehow very surreal. The one thing that kept me firmly in reality was my little one, who I hadn't even seen on a scan yet. I sang to her, I talked to her and I dreamt about her. When it was all getting to be too much, I counted the hours to our first scan. And all of a sudden I had made it through it. I flew home, and the following day I was at my booking appointment at the hospital. I cried for my mother there, in front of the student midwife. Then I went back to protecting my baby.

I cried for myself just days before she was born, wanting my mother to be with me. Then I went through the most amazing experience of my life, and finally had my daughter to hold. She brought me so much love and happiness, and changed my whole life. Somehow between the night feeds and changes, busy days and first smiles, I forgot to mourn.

The first Christmas was the best one of my life. In the pictures I'm eating my Christmas dinner with one hand while nursing The Captain on the other side. I'm under the tree opening presents with my bed-headed little baby, beaming. I also missed my mother more than I ever had before. I wanted to ask her a thousand questions, send her dozens of pictures every day and even imagined arguments about my chosen parenting style. I would've given anything to have her know better than me just one more time. All of a sudden I understood her so much better, and it was too late to say sorry. Or thanks. Or just have a silly, tired giggle.

The year after that was full of life, as it tends to be with kids. First tooth, crawl, step, everything. School, friends, groups, trips. With all of these, a vague longing to share it with my mom, while feeling very grateful for the moms around me, who were there to share the mothering experience when my own couldn't be.

And then on rolled this week again. So far I have cried every night. I've lost patience with supermarket offers not loading quickly enough. I've defrosted a "something" from the freezer, served it with rice and called it chilli con carne. I've gone to every group puffy eyed and claimed I'm fine. I've thought about doing lots of useful things after the kids go to bed, and ended up eating biscuits on the sofa instead. And you know what? That's fine. This is the week I get to sing all the saddest songs and cry into my supper. I get to mourn the fact I can't remember what my mom's voice sounds like. And I get to be a little more gentle towards myself for a few days, give myself some time to feel what I need to.

Friday is my mother's anniversary. She was a strong woman, who thought she couldn't give me enough and gave me so much more. A woman with laughter lines, obsession for fishing, firm belief in supernatural and a tough past. She always wished I would be happy, and I wish she could've seen me truly bloom. So while I spend Friday surrounded by people I love, I'll miss the first person who loved me. Then I'll dry my tears for another year, and celebrate her life in the best way possible; by continuing to do my best in raising another generation of strong women.