I love Halloween. This year, John and I went to see Shannon and Josh in northern Illinois on Saturday and stayed overnight, which always allows a little more "hanging out" time than a hit-and-run visit. Josh's family (mom & dad, sister & boyfriend, brother & girlfriend) joined us and we all walked about a mile to see the town's annual display of carved pumpkins. Then back to Shannon&Josh's house for potluck and pumpkin carving of our own -- always fun!
Amy and Mason had less fun -- Mason's been getting one cold virus after another, and spent most of Saturday night sleeping only about 45 minutes at a time -- so Amy was pretty beat by the time we got home on Sunday afternoon. And last night we were all up from about midnight until 2:30 because the little guy woke up screaming, wheezing, crouping, and vomiting.
As I attempted to fall back to sleep, I was reminded of my friend Julie Ann's earlier comment that the veil between the two worlds is thinnest on Halloween ... and I believe I experienced my very first inkling of any "communication" from my mom since she died a year and a half ago.
I was dead tired by the time I finally hit the pillow, but I couldn't get to sleep, so I found myself marveling at how all 3 of us had taken our roles to work as a team in our little crisis; me taking Mason from Amy (covered in vomit) so she could talk to the phone nurse without him wailing in their ears, John helping me get Mason out of his pajamas and handing me wet washcloths, then cleaning up the floor and sink while I cradled and comforted the diapered baby.
I was wondering whether Amy had found it helpful or irritating that I was humming and singing almost constantly (it seemed to calm him, and he often sang along) as we attended to Mason -- cleaning him up, turning the bathroom into a steam room to see if it helped his breathing (it did), and waiting for an hour before he could have anything to drink again (to see if he had a stomach virus, as well).
Upon reflection as I lay in bed, I found myself thinking, calmly, surely, "I am a GOOD grandma." And, further reflecting, I thought, "I am a GOOD MOM."
Anyone who knows me understands how revolutionary this is -- I am always doubting myself, especially in those roles. This was such a flood of certainty, accompanied by an undefinable, indescribable flow of *something* that I can only say seemed to give an impression of my mother ... the mom I grew up loving and adoring and spent most of my adult life missing ... and I found myself teary.
My mother's most significant gift to me was her absence from my life, which allowed me the space to become the good mom and the good grandma that I have grown to be. I am also very grateful for the perspective that allows me to finally, unreservedly, acknowledge these accomplishments.
Posts
