Mother Hunger

I dedicate this piece to everyone who has lost a mother.  I see you.

One of the by-products of losing your mom too soon is a hunger.

A hunger for what should have been.

A hunger for what could have been.

A hunger to simply pick up the phone to call her.

A hunger for her recipes and ironing sheets and houseplant skills.

A hunger to know more—more of her, more of who I was growing up.

A hunger for the grown-up version of a mother-daughter relationship.

A hunger for her to be the Grammie Ann to my kids.

A hunger for her to meet my daughter Kate who was born almost a year after she passed.

A hunger for her to know and see and touch and affirm who I have become at 50 years of age.

It reminds me a beloved childhood book by P.D. Eastman in which a baby bird is born in a nest alone as his mother was out…doing grocery shopping at Pavilions or some motherly errand. He was freshly hatched and wanted his mommy and hopped out of the nest to find her. He has not learned to fly yet so off on little bird feet he walked on his quest.

He questioned the cat first:  Are you my mother?

One by one he asked the chicken, dog, cow, car, boat, and plane. Then a scary altercation with the bulldozer claw; that ends with the claw dumping him back to his nest.  The Mommy Bird came back. Awww.

It’s been 15 ½ years since I lost my mother to cancer.  I was 34 years young at the time. A mother to two babies.  And for 10 years before that, my mom had health issues, so much so, my sisters and I truly parented her.  In some ways I lost her at 24.  In some ways I lost her before then even.  She was introverted, quiet, not in the know with my friends, never visited me at college. This WAS way before the Concierge Parenting Generation though, so maybe I should give her some grace.

Off and on since 2004 when I encounter sweet, wise, gentle, motherly women is…oh can you be my mother? Will you be my mother for a day?

Will you support me if I get seriously sick and make cozy beds and bring me ginger ale? Will you tell me what the next right thing is for me to do? Will you remind me that I have all the strength and grace I need to parent my 3 children? Will you be the proverbial wind beneath my wings?

Wil you be my prayer partner, my shopping buddy, my anchor in this COVID-19 storm?

I’ve joked with a couple of besties that I’d like to rent their mothers. Just for a day, here or there. Because I know and have observed through the years that their moms have been involved, caring, warm places to land and laugh, and share life with.  I admit a little spot of jealousy that they HAD their moms all these years to enjoy and treasure and learn from. That is what I really wanted. That is what I wish I had had. 

(Note: I feel I must say out of love and respect, that I am extremely grateful my beloved stepmother, Barb, and I have grown so close in the last 10 years or longer. She is a gem. She is the glue on my father’s side of the family.)

While my mother was dying of lung cancer, the tension of the coming grief was palpable.  After my mother died, the grief was palpable. It is a gaping Grand Canyon hole when you lose a parent. It’s intense. Over time it fills up slightly, but never fully. 

The tears lessen after several years and yet, a hunger remains. Because my mom, Ann Elizabeth Young, at just 70 years old, left and was gone way too soon.