Last Saturday I went to a workshop on fermenting foods with my sister-in-law Chris. It was offered as part of Traditional Days at the sportsman’s club near us.
The instructor was a very knowledgeable woman in her 30’s—a mom who home schools her six children, all of whom were there at the workshop. The kids were either listening attentively to her presentation or busying themselves with friends and the nearby swing set.
Except for the youngest—a blonde haired boy who was maybe four years old and needed a nap. He was either staying close to his mom as she presented or trying to get her attention by pushing any limit he could find. She was obviously used to this because she was able to gently keep him in line, teach and answer questions from the class at the same time.
She was fielding a question about the protein content of whey when suddenly there was a scream and some sort of tussle between Little One and his oldest brother. Mom stopped teaching and asked her oldest what happened. He shrugged as Little One burst into tears and ran to his mother, clinging to her leg.
MOMMY!
Everything else he said was unintelligible as he choked on tears, frustration and fatigue. Mommy bent down to console him.
MOMMY!
I sat there watching them and something opened up within me. I felt myself beginning to cry. Not for Little One. For me.
MOMMY!
My mom died on July 7, 2022. I am doing much better two years later than I was in the months after her life on earth ended. But grief has been ambushing me at night as the second anniversary of her death approaches.
Little One’s scream tore open something in me that I haven’t looked at in a while.
I am 63 years old. And I want my mommy.
I want to scream that out loud sometimes. But she isn’t here anymore.
MOMMY!
I remember about 15 years ago having a dental procedure done to fix a receding gum line. It hurt, and I was miserable afterward. I came home and called Mom. When she picked up the phone, I mumbled through the gauze packed in my jaw, “I want my mommy.” She listened, knew exactly what to say and made me feel better.
She was like that. She knew my weaknesses, my strengths, my obsessions, my soft spots. She knew exactly what to say. When she didn’t know what to say, she listened. She loved me, especially when I was choking on tears, frustration and fatigue.
There’s a hole inside me that will always be there, I suppose. A space that only she can fill. As each anniversary of her death comes and goes, I will learn to carry that a little better.
Along the way, there will be moments like what happened with Little One. They will be reminders that no matter how old you are, you will always need your mommy.
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