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Handmade Quilt & Hand-Me-Downs

Sander is modeling his beautiful new quilt courtesy of a very thoughtful and loving new friend. The creator of this generous handmade gift and I have connected recently over our experiences with loss, and it has been such a silver-lining to make new and wonderful friendships in the face of such an ugly tragedy. And this quilt is such a stunning example of that beauty in the face of sorrow. As she said so aptly, there’s something different about sharing with someone who has empathy rather than sympathy.

In a similar vein, we’ve received so many generous hand-me-downs from friends since Sander’s arrival, but I was particularly moved when we were given a bag full of beautiful baby clothes by a family in our community who’d heard about my mom’s passing. While we’d never met, she thought I might be in need of some boy clothes, and offered up pieces that included items her own mother had purchased for her sons. 

Unmothered

I’ve been finding that it’s not the days that I anticipate being hard or challenging or grief stricken that are my undoing, it’s the day or two after that milestone or holiday or date.

I can foresee the challenging moments on the calendar, so I plan for them. Activities and action fill those days so there’s little room for grief or dwelling on absence. Mother’s Day was full with plans. From breakfast out, to mother/daughter yoga class, to a trip to Beacon New York to visit the Dia Art Museum and explore its funky town on the Hudson. We ate meals at new restaurants. Rolled in the grass. And were thunder struck by modern art.

“Did you know that we’re allowed to go inside the art?!? INSIDE THE ART!!! This. Is. Awesome!”

Richard Serra made quite the impression on Courtland.

It’s the aftermath of these days, having survived them, having come out the other side, that strike with unfairness and pain. Time has continued forward during these moments. The world didn’t end or stop when my small universe did. The whole world keeps going, despite this momentous, life-changing personal loss, and the very inertia of that is a reminder of the length of time since I last heard her voice, saw her face, squeezed her hand, experienced her laughter. Each new day is one day further from the last time I hugged my mother.

A friend sent me this beautifully resonant piece from The New Yorker this morning, and it provided language and affirmation of so much of how I am feeling today, and in these aftermaths.

There’s a word in Hebrew—malkosh—that means “last rain.” It’s a word that only means something in places like Israel, where there’s a clear distinction between winter and the long, dry stretch of summer. It’s a word, too, that can only be applied in retrospect. When it’s raining, you have no way of knowing that the falling drops would be the last ones of the year. But then time goes by, the clouds clear, and you realize that that rain shower was the one. Having a mother—being mothered—is similar, in a way. It’s a term that I only fully grasp now, with the thirst of hindsight: who she was, who I was for her, what she has equipped me with.

I avoided social media yesterday, knowing all too well that I wouldn’t be able to stomach the celebratory, loving photos and messages about mothers as I longed for my own. It’s something much deeper and more painful than jealousy, something far more visceral and gut wrenching.

Meghan O’Rourke has a wonderful word for the club of those without mothers. She calls us not motherless but unmothered. It feels right—an ontological word rather than a descriptive one. I had a mother, and now I don’t. This is not a characteristic one can affix, like being paperless, or odorless. The emphasis should be on absence.

And that’s just it. I feel the presence of her absence. “She’s no where, and yet she’s everywhere.” While people and experience and time fill in around that absence, she is irreplaceable.

“For henceforth you will always keep something broken about you.” (Proust)

My family, my loved ones, keep me from collapsing under the weight of that break.

Mother’s Day

Mama, I know what I want for my birthday next week, but I don’t think I can have it.

Oh yeah, what is it?

Momar. I just want Momar.

Me too, baby. Every second. Of every day.

I have been dreading today. Facing a Mother’s Day without my mother. A motherless Mother’s Day.

I ran into the pharmacy to pick up a prescription this week and fell apart in the card section. The onslaught of Mother’s Day cards brought me to my knees. I have no mother to whom to send a card this year. And that never ceases to be a devastating reality.

I would have purchased this tote for my mom this year. The sentiment, the French, and the organization it supports are a trifecta of awesome that just scream ALLISON. So I bought it for myself, and wear it as a reminder.

Maman, Je t’aime.

Every second. Of every day.

She made this beautiful family of mine possible and I see her reflected daily in the smiles and noses and hearts of my children.

These two

My Ursa. My Mother.

These two are playing and snuggling in my heart and in the stars.

This week has been hard. The grey, rainy, dreary weather has reflected my mood. As Mother’s Day barrels down upon me, I find myself weighted down with melancholy and sadness. I’ve been combatting it with friends and family, and baby smiles, and yoga, and therapy, but it’s there, hanging over me. And it’s supposed to be. It doesn’t get better, it just gets different. I’m learning how to exist in a world without my mother. And that never won’t be hard. I’ll just learn to manage it. To live with it. Like all of us who face the world each morning without the woman who made us who we are. We adapt, adjust, and self-care. That’s all we can do. It never won’t be devastating. I will simply learn how to cope with that devastation and live with the beauty and sadness of a world without her.

She had the gift of stopping time & listening well so that it was easy to hear who we could become & that was the future she held safe for each of us in her great heart & you may ask, what now? & I hope you understand when we speak softly among ourselves & do not answer just yet for our future is no longer the same without her.

– StoryPeople

Sander Smiles

When he smiles, I smile. When I smile, he smiles. And it is the best possible therapy on a rainy grey Sunday.

Resilience

When you spend your days tethered to a nursing and/or napping newborn, you wind up taking a heck of a lot of selfies to capture all that delicious squish.
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I’m definitely feeling sadder this week than I’ve felt since my mom’s death 10 weeks ago. The shock has worn off. The baby is safely and healthfully here. I’ve weathered her memorial and our birthdays. And now, I’m settling into a routine. And processing a normalcy without her. And that has peeled back a new layer of grief.So I spend mornings lying in bed nursing and snuggling. I go to yoga class. I see my therapist. I take my medications (that I started shortly before Sander was born preempting the postpartum depression my midwives knew was coming given the devastating circumstances). Learn about the best CBD flower and Freshbros’ full spectrum cbd distillate and how it can help you with your depression and anxiety on this site. I go on long hikes with the dogs. I meet friends for coffee and laughter. I cry. I read extra stories to the girls at night. I write. I hold James close. I watch trashy TV. I stick my face in the sunshine and use again my favorite cbd products from budpop.com to help me keep relaxed. I delight in baby smiles. I document. I remember. I love.

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We don’t talk honestly or openly about loss in our society. The vulnerability and permanence, instability and unknowing make us wary and scared. But I must be candid to survive it. And I must do all these other things in the name of self care and thus being a stronger parent to my children, partner to my husband, and loving friend and family member.

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Birth and death are the most universal elements of humanity, and we can be carried and supported and elevated by the candor and experience of others as we each find our way through these deeply personal, complex life moments. Thank you to all those that have been brave and shared their truth with me. The human spirit is far more resilient than I ever imagined.

Sanderling’s Birth Announcement

As I’ve mentioned in past posts about our yearly holiday card process, my mother instilled in us a love of stationary and the art of snail mail over the course of our childhoods. And thus, it’s no surprise that she also was a big believer in hardcopy birth announcements. She insisted that Addison have one, which of course meant that I needed to make sure that all things were equal and Courtland had one. (Both announcements I wrote about here). Naturally, I couldn’t leave Sanderling out.

While in some ways it seemed silly to focus on creating and mailing birth announcements in the immediate aftermath of my mother’s passing, it was also an incredibly healing process. It allowed me to give voice to Sander’s name and bittersweet connection to my mother. It allowed me to include thank you notes to all those that were so deeply supportive and kind and thoughtful in the weeks following her death and Sander’s birth. And it allowed me to engage in a process that was so deeply connected to my mother. She would have been so pleased with this welcoming of her grandson.

I once again worked with Minted to create these beautiful announcements, and opted to have the card framed by them to save me a trip to the frame shop. They did a beautiful job, and it now hangs in his nursery like his big sisters’ did.

My Birth Day

Today is my 33rd birthday.

It is the first time in my life that I will mark this occasion without the woman who made this very day possible.

Three years ago I wrote, “So today, on my Thirtieth Birthday, I want to say thank you to my own mother for being strong and brave, especially on that day thirty years ago. Thank you for bringing me into this fragile, beautiful, incalculable world so that I could one day know the power of birthdays and a mother’s love, and wish you, mom, a Happy Birth Day.”

How those words resonate more than ever today.

And how grateful I feel that I spoke out loud, wrote down, and shared my love and appreciation for my beautiful mama with her and the world. It could be easy to be filled with regret, and unsaids, and unfinisheds when life is ripped away so unexpectedly, so suddenly. But in all of the ugliness and sorrow of the past two months, there is no doubt. While there is longing for more time, there is no regret of love unspoken.

She knew how desperately I loved her. And I knew how very much I was loved in return. While we could be tough with and on one another, we were equally as fierce with our love. And while I ache to have that love at my fingertips, to physically hold it in my arms, it sits confidently and securely inside me, forever anchoring my heart when I need strength and bravery and to believe in myself. She always believed in me, and never hesitated to speak that pride and belief out loud.

I will spend every day of my own life making sure my children know how deeply they are cherished, so that they know the warmth, and comfort, and confidence that comes from a love modeled by their Momar.

I love you, Mom. Thank you for showing me how important it is to name those three words. And thank you for making today my Birth Day.

My Mother

These are the words I shared at the celebration of my mother’s life this weekend. It was a beautiful occasion. Everything she would have wanted.
1-4-3, Momar.

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For the past two months, I’ve envisioned this moment and what I might want to share or say about my mother to all of you.

I knew you would all be here. I knew that I would be surrounded by the faces of all who loved her throughout her life. She meant so much, to so many, in so many capacities. She was to her core a people person, and she championed and cheerleaded and made people feel loved in a way that drew them to her. I knew that in this moment, I would be looking into that living embodiment of who she was.

In knowing that, I couldn’t help but think back on my wedding day. Those of you that were there can attest to the rather soggy conditions of the day. What was supposed to have been an outdoor September wedding among the Berkshire mountains decorated with table runner melbourne was disrupted by a tropical storm that hit Williamstown shortly before the scheduled ceremony. My mother, adamant that we did not need a wedding planner, because, let’s be honest, who better to plan a memorable fete than Allison, found herself in the position of trying to troubleshoot the incoming storm. I’ll never forget the image of her running around in a pair of khaki shorts, tennis shoes, and a bra, her hair frizzed out to oblivion from the heat and humidity, directing anyone in her path to clear furniture to make room for the over 200 guests that would need reprieve from the elements.

I remember trying to gently suggest that she stop playing wedding planner and delegate that out to someone else so that she, mother of the bride, could, ya know, put on her dress and maybe get her hair done. But she would have none of it. And we all know that Allison Ulmer did exactly what Allison Ulmer was going to do.

Miraculously, she was indeed dressed and coiffed and walked me down the aisle alongside my father shortly thereafter. While the ceremony may have been slightly delayed, it wouldn’t have been an event run by Allison if it had started promptly on time. She was ever a believer in the art of being fashionably late – even if it was to her own party.

As I stood at the top of that make shift aisle – the end of an oriental runner she’d scrounged up for the occasion – I remember taking in that room filled with faces – packed like sardines, shoulder to shoulder, standing room only, dripping with sweat from the heat of the day and all of our bodies crammed together, and feeling surrounded. Surrounded by the people who represented the course of my life and James’ life. That had loved us and each been so integral in who we were in that moment. Those people were representations of our lives to date and it was a powerful thing to take that in and have my life reflected back to me in that way.

After the wedding, as I thought back on that moment and that feeling, I realized that the only other time people come together in that way are when the person is no longer here to experience it. When the person is already gone. And so as I stand here, and look out at this sea of faces, I am seeing my mother’s life reflected back to me. And how she would have just delighted in all of you coming together, and an excuse to entertain you all. But since she cannot be here to enjoy it, I want to take it in on her behalf. To absorb the power and comfort that comes from being surrounded by all who loved and cared about her. Thank you for being here today and for reflecting back to me the love and joy that she brought to all of you over the course of her life.

For Momar

Happy Birthday, Mama.

Sunny made you a birthday banner at school yesterday. Unprompted, she came home and hung it over our kitchen table in preparation for today’s celebration of you. Both of your granddaughters are always looking for ways to bring a smile to my face, and they go about it in such thoughtful, tenderhearted ways. They come from your legacy of giving so freely, unabashedly, and warmly to those they love. You taught us all so well.

The flowers I would have sent to you today, I ordered for our household. I’ll enjoy their pastel, drippy romantic sweetness and think of all the beauty you brought to my life. I wish I’d written down all the myriad of things you told me about flowers and gardening over the years; but I never thought I wouldn’t have you by my side or a phone call away to remind me of every last perennial and its corresponding Latin root. Not yet, at least. mother’s day cake today come in every shape, size, and flavor. And with access to every retail possibility, we have the option of purchasing anything we want. From pre-made cakes at the grocery store, to pre-ordered cakes from your favorite bakery, Mother’s Day cakes should reflect the personality and unique style of your mother. And – most importantly it should fit her taste. So if she likes vanilla but the rest of the family likes chocolate – it should be vanilla all the way.

Today we’re driving to Saratoga, a place where you lived and loved, to celebrate your birthday. The girls so enjoyed our trip there last spring, and I was so eager to visit with you in tow so you could tell them all about your collegiate motherland. I’ve been wearing your Skidmore ring almost daily. And I think about its wild journey from a field at Goucher College, back into the hands of the Skidmore Alumni Office, and then back to you. I promise to keep better track of it this time. Although, I know you delighted in the story of two former women’s colleges having such devoted, thoughtful staff that it wound up being safely returned to you, even after my foolishness.

I found half-popped popcorn at the store yesterday, and nearly purchased all twenty bags on the shelf (I restrained myself to five). Just the other day, Sunny commented that her favorite part of eating popcorn was the half-popped kernels at the bottom of the bowl. I explained to her that you and I both shared that obsession, and that when I was in high school you’d actually found a company that made entire bags of just half-popped kernels. I hadn’t seen such a thing since, and then lo, on the shelves of Trader Joe’s, there they were. Thank you for that. We’ll snack on them en route to Saratoga. And the girls have planned to bake a chocolate cake, with chocolate frosting, covered in your favorite berries (strawberry, raspberry and blackberry. No blueberry!) for dessert tonight. They plotted out their vision for the cake last night. They take their sweets as seriously as you did.

As I was driving home last week after my first full day away from the house with Sander, I reached for the phone to call you and tell you all about it. When reality hit, I was left with the crushing devastation that happens in the wake of unexpected grief. They’ll never be enough tears to express how that feels. I don’t think I’ll ever stop doing that. Reaching for you. Yearning to hear your voice and your laugh. Your support and encouragement. Your stories. Your opinions. You were so full of all of these. And I miss them. Every day.

You are daily a part of our conversations and our storytelling. The way that we live our lives. You gave us all so much, and we’ll be forever seeking to give that back out to the world as a reminder of your generous, lion-hearted spirit.

I love you. Always. Forever. Toujours.

Bonne Anniversaire, Maman.
143 Your Ashley