One more I love you

I’m having an “I miss my mom” day. My mom was the queen of moms… to me. If you asked my 13 or 14 year old self, she may have been a little snot about it, but even she still would have grudgingly said her mom was great – because she was. She came to every event, made cupcakes for bake sales, braided my hair; the works. She would let me lay my head in her lap and run her fingers through my hair and gently take the tangles out at night. She really talked to me. I mean, she was still a mom and yelled at me about my room and to go to bed, but she liked knowing me too. She was always there for me…and then she wasn’t. There isn’t really a way to describe how you feel when your mom dies of cancer, and she’s been your whole world and you didn’t even fully realize that fact yet. I felt…broken, like something inside me would never work properly again. I remember that I couldn’t cry at the right times. The single most awful moment in my fifteen years, the fear that you never speak out loud happened, and I couldn’t even mourn her properly. I felt numb but also like at any moment I’d punch someone. Anger was always so close to the surface then. I remained silent to my father. The house was too big without her, and he was the last person I wanted to be stuck with. We barely made the time for conversation on a good day, and now I had to somehow pretend I knew how to live without her. I remember pulling clothes out of her closet that still smelled like her and burying my face into them until the tears stopped. I’d squeeze my feet into her too-small shoes and wish they’d fit me just once, so I could feel connected to her in a small way again. I’d look at pictures of her smile and stare until my eyes got blurry, trying with all my might to remember the sound of her laugh; the one where she’d throw her head back and close her eyes and it’s tinkling sound would fill the air.
It’s different now that I’m older and a mom myself. Now I have days like today where I just want to call her and ask for advice or just have her share a story with me, so I know that I’m not crazy and that no mom, even her, is perfect. I need to hear her say that I’m a good mom. It’s one thing to think you’re doing an okay job, but if my mom were standing here today to say that, it would feel like someone threw a gold medal around my neck. But that’s not possible. She’s still not here. No phone will reach her.
I miss her. That’s not even a big enough word to cover it, but it’s true none the less. I want to laugh with her again and fight with her, and I want to sing harmony with her; my first singing partner. I want to hear her call me: mon petite fille (my little girl) and sing Que Sera Sera one more time. I want to show her her granddaughters. I want them to meet her. I want her to be able to spoil them. I hate days like today. You think you’ve dealt with everything; the unfairness, the loss, and the pain…but it’s always there.
Let me give you some advice. If you love your mom, don’t wait to tell her. Don’t hesitate to let her know, and make time for her to know your kids. No appointment is more important. I swear to you that you’ll thank me for it. I’d give anything for one more moment with my mom. Just a moment. Long enough to say thank you, long enough to say you were the best mom so don’t ever doubt it, and long enough to say I love you so much and I will forever. One more hug. One more goodbye.  One more I love you.
My beautiful Bella just got little Mikayla out of her crib and she is running down the hallway, running to find me. When she sees me from the doorway, she speeds up and lets out a very happy and relieved “Mommmmy!” and I scoop her up and she buries her little face into my neck in a big hug. I think today will be okay now. ♡Moe♡

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