I had a flashback after getting some news the other day. I thought about my mom.
I'm at a very sensitive time of my life remembering my mom. My girlios are in and around the age when she was sick and when she died. I marvel at the situation from the other side, as the mother, a healthy mother, with daughters. I have long forgiven my mind for having only a few memories. It was a hard time, and I was young. I had guilt for some time as I developed emotionally and cast my maturer emotions on old memories expecting more of myself at a young age. Watching my girlios at this age and seeing their priorities next to mine, I release myself all the more and let my childhood be a childhood. Feelings are more memorable than details.
I don't remember a lot about my mom. I remember her hands and the smell of Oil of Olay. I remember her and I fighting. I was a feisty child. I come from stubborn stock, and I have passed it on. I remember her making clothes for us on her Singer sewing machine. Her craft room was full of projects. She crocheted dolls and doll clothes. I remember her telling me that she learned to knit using spokes from a bike, I remember her undoing a sweater she made to make another one. It hangs in my closet. She sewed, crocheted, knitted, and drew. She walked me to school across the street the long way around the corner. On Valentine's Day she made me a Valentine's pillow and left it on my bed so I would wake up to it. I didn't notice it until she pointed it out.
I remember her being sick and bedridden. I remember the wigs that she wore out and her bald head after chemo. She looked good in a bandanna. I remember her last day at our house. My memories are few and scattered.
The memory that came back the other day was a conversation that she had with me and my brother. The conversation. She sat with us in our sun room to tell us that she only had a short time to live. She was honest about her condition, her illness and her prognosis. By that time she had been battling cancer for a long time. I absorbed it as much as my young mind could. She was very candid.
I count that conversation as part of her legacy. I admire her strength. Remembering it brings me to tears. As a mom now, I cherish that memory even more. That had to be heartbreaking conversation for her, especially to children who could not full understand. Being honest and straightforward with my children is something I strive to do. Sometimes it's hard. I hope to not have the conversation with my children my mom had anytime soon, but I do hope they appreciate the honest conversations we do have. I did. I do.