***This post was originally written and published on 3-24-19.

My husband and I went on a date last night. We ate at a new restaurant. The food was great. The wine flowed, as did our conversation. We laughed. I smiled. I enjoyed the rare quality time with just him.

Back home the conversation continued, but in a different direction. My husband stated that I hadn’t posted in a while. “Does that mean you are doing better?” he asked. I gave him the truth. No. In fact I’m doing worse. I’ve retreated into my shell to hide, so now here I am trying to break back out.

But why?

Maybe it’s because I thought by now I would be doing better. Even if it was just a little bit better. Mom has been gone almost ten months now. Time is supposed to heal you, right? Clearly, there is no timeline here.

Maybe it’s because after spending a long weekend in the hill country, reality slapped me in the face upon returning. I got to step out of regular life for few days, a couple of weeks ago. It was invigorating. Refreshing. Needed. There was no easing back into regular life. I had to jump in. Back into being a fulltime working mom. Back into trying to balance our chaotic lives. Back into my grief.

Maybe it’s because I feel like I am failing (or barely passing) in several aspects of my life. My to-do list gets longer and longer and very few things get crossed off. Work has been a struggle lately. I question if I am doing enough, or in some cases too much, for my children daily.

Maybe it is all of the above.

In this there is good news and bad news.

The good news is I am able to manage regular life. I am able to get out of bed every morning and face the day. Sure some days are hard and there are days I want to pull the covers over my face. I still force myself to get up. I drop off my children and husband, go to work and then pick everyone back up. I do homework with my daughter. I snuggle with my son. I have dinner with my husband. I smile. I laugh. I have truly happy moments.

The bad news is I am so good at keeping up appearances that I even fooled my husband into thinking I was doing better.

Living with grief is tricky like that. In all the happy moments, through all the laughter, behind my smile, the grief is there. I’ve gotten good at pushing it down and not letting it take control. I release it when I am alone, in hopes of not burdening anyone. I sometimes feel like a pingpong ball in a neverending game. Being present in life and making time to grieve is exhausting. It’s a constant balance game. Sometimes I’m ahead and sometimes I’m not.

I know the sadness will always be there. My hope is that the back-and-forth will slow down and normalize. Until then, I will get out of bed and face the day. I will continue to take it day by day. And I will let this be a reminder that retreating into my shell is not doing anyone any good.

Thank goodness my husband asked. 💜

***This post was originally written and published on 3-3-19.

This is a week late. The Academy Awards were last Sunday. The Oscar’s. Hollywood’s big party. The night where some of the world’s most beautiful, look their best. I have always loved watching the Academy Awards. I’m not even sure why. I’ve never been a big movie buff. Even pre-kids, the most Oscar buzzed movies I saw, on any given year, was probably three. There has been a year, maybe two, where I have not seen any of the big nominated pictures. This year, I saw one, A Star is Born. I loved and hated it, but that is another post.

No matter how many movies I see or don’t see, each year, I always watch the Oscar’s. But, why? The pomp and circumstance. The beauty. The grandeur. But I think it is more. Growing up, my mother always watched beauty pageants. Miss Texas followed by Miss America. Miss Texas USA followed by Miss USA and then sometimes, Miss Universe. I loved watching them with her. I have fond memories of rooting on Miss Texas with her. I think this led to my affection for the Oscar’s. It’s like the beauty pageant of award shows. The stars wear their best evening wear, the interview portion is their acceptance speech, yet their talent has been pre-judged. Who will be Mr. or Mrs. Oscar? Who will reign supreme for the year?

Now the Oscar’s have new meaning. It serves as a bittersweet anniversary. The Academy Awards of 2015 started out like the rest. I was looking forward to deciding which stars dressed their best and which ones missed the mark. My husband was in trial or had a big hearing the next day, so he turned in early. I was left alone with Oscar and a glass of champagne. Just as I was settling into my solitude and the glitz and glamour of the evening, I got a most unexpected phone call, but one that I will forever cherish.

About an hour into Hollywood’s big show, I pressed pause to answer a call from my father, that would forever change me. On the phone, my father quickly, almost hurriedly, explained that Mom was having a rare night and they had just had a talk about what was going on with her. “She knows what is happening and wants to talk to you” he said. Before my brain could even begin to process that, I heard my mother’s familiar greeting. Familiar in the sense that this was my mom. My real mom. The mom I hadn’t heard from in a while. The mom whom the disease was slowly taking away. Suddenly, there she was. My mom. Lucid. In the know that she had Alzheimer’s.

Imagine being told by your spouse that you have Alzheimer’s, and that lately you live in a state of confusion. That you are forgetting people you love. Imagine hearing that, reacting to it, and accepting it so quickly so the moment does not slip by. Imagine realizing this may be your last chance to say things you’ve wanted to say. Imagine knowing your fate and understanding what it was doing to your family. Mom knew. She had been in our shoes before. She watched her mother slowly forget her and slip away. Imagine. I’m not sure I would have the composure my mom did.

In true mom form, over the phone, Mom said she didn’t want to take up too much of my time. She went on to say how much she enjoyed being my mother and how proud I had made her. She said a few other things, but my emotions had gotten the best of me. Tears were streaming down my face. My voice was paralyzed. My mom told me she loved me. I managed to tell her I loved her too. “I know you’re probably busy, so I will let you go” she said. Through my tears, I somehow managed a weak protest, that I had more time. Of course I had more time, but my mom overrode my rebuttal and ended the call with one last “I love you”. Before I could even properly respond, my father was back on. He said it had been quite a night. Quite a night, indeed.

I ended the call and cried. Cried because I was losing my mom. Cried because I missed my mom. Cried because for a brief moment, I had my mom back. Cried because it wasn’t long enough. Cried because I didn’t tell her all the things I wanted to say. Cried for the missed opportunity. Cried because she took precious minutes of her lucid time, to call me and tell me she loved me. Cried because I got to talk to my real mom, unexpectedly, one last time. Cried because she gave me such a beautiful gift.

I can’t tell you who won Best Actor of 2015, but I will forever be grateful for that evening. Grateful for the ever so brief time I got to spend with my Mom. Now, every year when the Academy Awards come around, that memory shines. It was unexpected. Raw and unscripted. There were no teleprompters. Neither one of us was in an evening gown or had makeup on. Yet it was one of most beautiful moments of my life. One that I will forever play on repeat.

And the Oscar goes to….

***This post was originally written and published on 2-6-19.

Here is the post I’ve needed to write. It’s been nagging at me, but every time I tried to start, I just couldn’t. Not sure why today is different, but here goes.

Before Mom passed, I worried about what I might regret after she was gone. Would I regret not spending more time with her? Regret not pushing to get her evaluated sooner? Regret not trying harder to make a few more memories? She left us 8 months ago. So do I have regrets? Yes and no.

About two years after Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she started to forget us. US. Her family. Her husband of 49 years. Her son of 48 years. And me, her daughter of almost 39 years. They day I walked into my childhood home, greeted my mom and saw no recognition in her eyes, I was crushed. How did my own mother not know me? Suddenly, there was a different person, a stranger, in my mother’s body. She didn’t know me and I didn’t know her. The new person was pleasant enough. She tried to talk to me. She commented on the cute kids that I had with me. Those cute kids were her grandchildren. The new person, the Stranger, was polite and tried her best to fit in. But, she was not my mother. I could not wrap my mind around that. I could not accept it.

I began to dread trips back home. I got incredibly moody two to three days before a trip back. The panic attacks would find me. There were times I flat out did not want to go at all. I did it for my father, more than anything. He was in it every single day. I couldn’t fathom how he was able to handle it. The least I could do was go for a visit and give him a bit of a break.

It got harder and harder each time I went back home and saw how much farther Mom had slipped away. The new Stranger had made herself very comfortable in my mother and I hated it. Hated the Stranger. Hated that the Stranger had stolen my mother away. I was so angry. I didn’t want a different mom. I wanted MY mom. I didn’t want to “get to know” the Stranger in hope that I might catch a glimpse of my mother. It got to the point where I avoided making eye contact with her. I couldn’t look at my Mom, because she wasn’t there. Although the Stranger looked like her, it wasn’t the mom who raised me. Shaped me. Loved me. I was ashamed of not looking at her, for a while. I just couldn’t face seeing the void in her eyes when she looked back at me. It would force me to face the fact that my mom had left me and I tried to avoid that at all costs. So I pretended like I was ok. I would hug her hello and goodbye. I would get her something to eat. I would cover her with a blanket. All without looking at her. The Stranger inside my mom.

I can now admit that yes, we should have gotten Mom to see a doctor sooner. Maybe we would have gotten more time with her. Maybe not. I do wish we could have made a few more memories together. And yes, in a way, I wish I had spent more time with Mom. But time with my real Mom, not the Stranger. I now know I could have never made enough memories with her. The real her. And I will no longer beat myself up for not getting her evaluated sooner. I was on an unexpected and uncharted course. I shouldn’t have expected to steer in the right direction, right away.

Everyone handles grief, fear, sadness, any emotion, differently. I get that. The way I handled Mom leaving us, was the only way I knew how. It was the only way, at the time, I could get through it. There is no course you can take to prepare yourself for it. You just go through it. You take it day by day and get through it. It’s sad, it’s hard, it’s soul crushing and it will change you. How it changes you, cannot be predicted. I never imagined I would come out of this and WANT to share my story. I never thought I would be so vulnerable and write so freely. But, if there is another person out there starting this journey sad, scared and unsure of what will be, I want them to know that they are not alone. Our journeys will be different, but they are the same in their challenges and imperfections. Don’t expect to navigate this on a straight path. There is no right or wrong way. You just have to go through it. You may have regrets on the other side, but be kind and forgiving of yourself. In time, I have forgiven myself. I got through it the only way I could. One day at a time.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 1-8-19.

The journey with Alzheimers is many things. Sad. Scary. Exhausting. All encompassing. But, most of all, unpredictable. Until a cure is found, we know the end result. We know the disease will steal our loved ones’ memories. We know it will change them. We know Alzheimer’s will take and take and take, until our loved ones slip away for good. It’s easy to say, “Make the most of the time you have left. Live life to the fullest.” But we don’t know how much time we have left. How much time before they start to change? How much time before they start to forget us? That, we cannot predict and it sucks.

Add to that the range of emotions that come along with this terrible destiny and it is difficult to focus on trying to be positive. At first, I was only sad. Heartbroken. I knew I was going to lose my mother. I knew my children would never truly know their Mimi. Then the fear started. The fear of what was to come. The fear of life without my mom. The fear of having her fate one day. But, most of all, the anger. Anger that there is a disease as cruel as Alzheimer’s. Anger that my mom was one of the unlucky ones. Anger that I would lose her twice. First, when she forgets her own daughter and then when she takes her last breath. Anger that my mom was being stolen away, little by little.

Alzheimer’s has a stigma. It’s not talked about openly the way other diseases are, which is part of the reason I stayed silent for so long. I didn’t feel my voice would be heard. Tack on the loneliness I felt on top of this and all the emotions and it’s a wonder I functioned at all. I chose not to talk about what I was going through and because of that, I had little support. No one can help you if they don’t know you are suffering. No one will hear your cry for help if you don’t speak.

I tried my best to keep it together and hide the fact that my world felt like it was unraveling. Then the panic attacks started. I noticed they only happened when I was alone and my mind had time to wander. Solution? Never be alone. That was somewhat easy with two children under the age of 3 at the time, a husband and a full time job. But, it found me. It found me while getting ready for work in the morning. In the car, on the the way to the grocery store. At night as I tried desperately to fall asleep before the sadness and anger seeped in. It even found me in my dreams. Before I knew it, the sadness, the fear, the anger and the panic attacks had built up a pretty big wall between dealing with what was happening to my mom and the rest of my life. Climbing over that wall time and time again to be present for each, was exhausting. I almost let it consume me.

But then, I started to talk. Slowly, at first. I made the decision to tell my closest girlfriends in town, but I wasn’t brave enough to say it out loud. I had to send them an email instead. But, now it was out. They now knew and they supported me and lifted me up, just as I knew they would. I began to tell other friends, when the time was right. Every time got a tiny bit easier. Each time, once the line of communication was opened, I was offered a safe space to talk, to cry, and to be angry. Gradually that wall between my two worlds started to crumble. The loneliness went away and because I opened up, I got what I needed most. The realization that I didn’t have to do this alone. The sadness, fear and anger became somewhat bearable because of my people. My family. My friends. My support.

I know my voice is louder now and I hope that by speaking out, the Alzheimer’s stigma can start to fade. I hope that Alzheimer’s will no longer be a shadowed disease and that more people will speak up and join the fight to find a cure. Until then, I will continue to share my journey. Each journey is unique, but they are all hard. So yes, live life to the fullest. Make plans. Take the trip. Try to focus on the positive, but be kind to yourself when the days are dark. Let others in and talk about it. And know that while there will be many sad times, there will be unexpected joyful moments that arise. It’s all a part of this unpredictable journey.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 12-29-18.

Christmas. It came. It happened. I smiled. I laughed. I cried. My heart was full and empty all at the same time.

On Christmas Eve I awoke with a mighty chore list. The long list seemed to laugh at me and my attempt to get everything done. All the planning I had done up until that point seemed futile. I had a house to clean, gifts still to be wrapped, cookies to make with the kids for Santa, dinner to prep and then cook, a table to set, etc, etc. I tried to get my children to help, but their attempts were half-hearted and only lasted a few minutes. I would find them playing instead of doing what I asked and would have ask/demand/beg them to get back to work. My husband didn’t catch on to my distress and before too long my patience wore out. The weight of missing my mom at Christmas and feeling like the only one trying to get everything ready for our dinner guests, was too much. I lost it. I proclaimed that Christmas was on pause until everyone pitched in and helped. I retreated to my room to cool down and in hopes my family would accomplish some tasks, even if it was out of guilt.

I won’t go into to more detail on how much longer it took, how much harder it was or how many more times I lost my cool, before the list was complete. And while it didn’t go off perfectly, I will say in the end, it was an enjoyable evening.

My father was here and we faced our first Christmas without Mom together. I hoped that being at our house and not his, might be a little easier on him. Moms name came up a few times throughout the evening and the tears stung my eyes each time. But, I held it together, which was impressive, given that I had already glued myself back together once that day.

As the hours of Christmas Eve began to run out, my mom’s absence grew. After prepping for Santa’s arrival, my husband and father retired for the night. Though it was late and I knew the next day would start early, I was not ready to sleep. Instead, I poured myself one last glass of wine and toasted Mom by turning up the volume of the Christmas carols. I sat there for a while, thinking about her and memories of Christmases past. In a way, it was our time together. Then the clock struck midnight. Christmas had arrived but Mom was still gone. I listened to one of our favorite Christmas songs and I let the tears fall. When it was over, I whispered “Merry Christmas, Mom” and went to bed.

Christmas Day was much better on me. Seeing the joy on my childrens’ faces was uplifting. My heart warmed with each squeal of delight. And while my mother’s physical absence was apparent, I felt her there with us. In a weird way, I feel like I truly stepped into her shoes this Christmas. I was MOM. And if you remember one of my previous posts, the scissors were already on the table and the kids did get fuzzy socks in their stockings.

I made it through my first Christmas without Mom. Even though I tried to pause it, it still came. Even though my heart was hurting, I still smiled and laughed. And even though it started off a little rocky, it was a memorable Christmas spent with my family. Maybe next year will be a little easier, maybe not, but Christmas will still come, no matter what.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 12-21-18.

I am thirty-nine years old, but I still need my mom. Yes, I am an adult with my own family to nurture and love, but I still want and need my mom. I guess that feeling will never go away.

Recently, I had a cold that I couldn’t shake for almost two weeks. Each day brought an added new symptom so by day 5 or 6, I was feeling pretty lousy. As a mom to two small children and a wife to a man who recently had two eye surgeries, I am more used to being the caregiver than the patient. Like most moms (and my own), I always try to do it all and take care of everyone else before myself. I push past my inner voice and ignore the signs my body gives me, to slow down and take care of myself. My husband stepped in and forced me to take a day off from all my responsibilities. It was hard, but I did let myself rest and start to recover, as I knew the holidays will quickly be upon us.

As I laid in bed watching cheesy Christmas movies, I thought back to what it was like being sick as a child. A sick day was more than just a day off from school. A sick day meant getting spend the day in my pajamas, under blankets on the sofa, watching all the TV I never knew existed on day-time TV and constant attention from my mom. The menu on sick days consisted of saltine crackers, water and/or Sprite with a bendy straw and sometimes a popsicle, for dessert/hydration. I remember the feel of my mother’s cool hand on my forehead, checking for signs of fever. I remember her handing me the yellow plastic medicine spoon and bracing myself for the possibility of an icky taste. I remember laying my head in my mom’s lap in the waiting room of the doctors office. And if I had to get a shot, I remember holding her hand for comfort.

Comfort, that was my mother. She was always the hand to hold in fear or for strength, the ear to listen in good or bad times, the confidant that held my secrets and the open arms always willing to give and wanting a hug. I would have given almost anything for her to have walked through the door on my day of rest, with a cup of Sprite and a bendy straw. Moments of weakness can make us child-like, but the truth is, even adults need their mothers. Even moms need their own. I miss mine. I miss her comfort. I miss her presence. I miss her.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 12-4-18.

It has been six months since I lost my mother. Six months since I held her hand for the last time. Six months since I told her it was ok to go. Six months since my world darkened.

On June 4th of this year, I received a phone call from my brother that made my heart sink. My heart is still trying to learn to float again. Monday, June 4th, started out better than most Mondays. It was the official countdown to my vacation in France. In six days, I was flying to Paris to see my niece who had been studying abroad for a year. I would be meeting my brother and sister-in-law there to reunite with our Ashley. With mom’s sickness over the years, I became apprehensive to answer phone calls from my brother. I always knew he would be the one tasked with telling his little sister that Mom was declining or that it was “time”. But on that Monday, my spirits were high. The excitement of our trip later that week overshadowed any fear of potential bad news. So when my brother called that morning, I easily assumed he was calling to discuss last minute trip details. Unfortunately, it was the call I had been dreading for years. Mom had taken a sharp decline and it was time for the family to gather and say goodbye.

Everything stopped for a moment. Was this really happening? Was I really about to lose my mom? Was I about to drive to my parents house to say goodbye to my mother for good? What do I do? How do I handle this? How would I get through it?

About the only bright spot in the situation was that my brother was working not far from me and offered to drive me on the 2.5 hour trip to our parents house. I don’t remember much about our drive, but I am so grateful for that time with my brother. Grateful not to be alone on that drive, with only my thoughts spinning in my head. Grateful for the strength, being with him brought to me.

On that drive I admitted to my brother that I was hesitant to see our mom in this situation. It had been so hard on me watching her forget us and transform into a stranger that wore my mother’s clothes. I didn’t think I could handle seeing her like she was. Bedridden in a hospital bed, unable to speak, in what we believed were to be her final moments. Once home however, my father offered no time in discussing my apprehension and fear. Rather, he took my hand and lead me to my mother’s bedside. The next several hours were some the hardest and saddest hours of my life. But as difficult as that time was, it provided beautiful moments of comfort and love. We gathered as a family around her and at times, individually. I held her hand. I told her I loved her and it was ok for her to go. I told her we would be alright. And though she couldn’t speak, I believe she understood.

Alzheimer’s had stolen her memories and forced her to forget us, but I believe in the end, she knew we were with her. Just as I believe Mom had the control in the end and freed herself of the disease. She was surrounded by family and love as she departed. May we all be so lucky.

Being in the room with mom as she died, is something I never envisioned doing. It was not something I thought I could handle or really thought I wanted to do. But I am so grateful to have been with her as she left this world. The disease had taken so much away from her over the years, at least our presence could hopefully provide some comfort and peace as she finally let go.

After she took her last breath, we stayed by her side. We continued to talk to her and tell her we loved her. We cried, we hugged, we reminisced and we even laughed. Sadness. Hurt. Anger. Relief. Despair. Comfort. Love. Peace. It was as if all the emotions and feelings were bottled up and then sprinkled out. My mother, our rock, the glue of the family was gone, but now she was free. Alzheimer’s could no longer hurt her or us. For that I am grateful.

These past six months without with mom have been the hardest months of my life. I miss her more than I ever imagined I would. Losing my mother is not something I can get over. I can only be at peace with it and I have no idea how long that will take. Six months ago I said goodbye to my mom, but I haven’t let her go. Maybe I never will. Everyday has been hard, but everyday is new. And one of these days, the light will find its way back in.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 11-29-18.

I am strong and I am weak.

I made it through Thanksgiving without a complete meltdown. There was sadness and a few tears, of course, but I managed to hold it together fairly well. We spent the holiday with my in-laws, so it was easy to pretend it was just an off year from being with my family. My dad will be with us at Christmas, so there will be no ignoring the void, then.

I checked in with my friends that recently lost parents to see how they made it through the holiday. They both agreed with me that it was difficult and Christmas would be worse. While texting with one of those friends, we discussed how hard it is to stay strong. I told her I was starting to think I needed to fall apart more and let myself really feel the grief, as much as I don’t want to. It might be the only way to work through it. But, if I allow myself to do that, does that mean I am weak?

Why I am so afraid of being weak? Why do I feel like I have to be strong for everyone? Why do I think I need to act like everything is alright? Why do I force the tears back and not allow myself to feel the pain? Of course it will hurt, but by not feeling it, I am avoiding it. The hurt and pain, the GRIEF, is not going to go away on its own. It will not give up. I will not overcome it by ignoring it or suppressing it. So I will face it. The sadness, the tears, the hurt, the pain. Weakness. Grief. I will let myself be weak because in the end I will be stronger.

The conclusion I have come to is this: You can’t be truly strong until you have fought past your weakness. Being weak is not a sign of giving in or giving up. It is the starting point from which you will measure how far you go. Little by little, tear by tear, I will let it in and let it out. I will feel the hurt. I will be weak. And by doing that, I will let myself start to heal. In writing this I realize that my grief may have only just begun. But I am ready.

I am weak and I am strong.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 11-18-18.

Thankful.

It is a word tossed around a lot this time of year. There are different definitions, but the one I like best is “expressing gratitude and relief”. I think that may best sum up my current feelings of my mother. I am thankful/grateful for having a wonderful relationship with my mom and I am thankful/relieved that she is no longer trapped within the Alzheimer’s disease.

I am a lucky daughter. Asking me what I am most thankful for when it comes to my life with my mom is impossible. My mother was the perfect balance of protector, teacher, best friend, cheerleader, and therapist. She was my compass, my source of good vibes and my shoulder to cry on.

Though I wish it could have been much longer, I am thankful to have had my Mom for almost 39 years. I am grateful for the role model she was and for the lessons she taught me. Because of her I am strong, brave, kind and loyal. My mother raised me to stand up for myself and for what is right. She taught me that you don’t always have to be the loudest voice to get your point across and your actions matter. She encouraged me to try my best at everything and to learn from my mistakes. From her, I learned not to hide my emotions, tell people how I feel, but also not to let them walk all over me. She made it comfortable to cry and so fun to laugh. And most of all she showed me that family and love are what matter most.

I am thankful that my mother knew my children before she forgot us. She held my babies and loved on them. My daughter once proclaimed that hugs from Mimi were the best. Even though their time together was short, my children felt her love and still carry it with them. I hope her imprint on them lasts.

And now, although my mother is gone, I am thankful she is free from Alzheimer’s. No longer can the disease steal her memories or steal her away from us. I am relieved Mom no longer silently suffers. And if I am being completely honest, I am relieved I don’t have to look into her vacant eyes, wanting to see the slightest glimmer of recognition. Losing her has been the most difficult trial of life, but I am learning that the greater the love is, the greater the loss.

Gratitude and relief. This Thanksgiving I am thankful for my mother and the life she led. Grateful for her time with me and her unconditional love. Relief that she is free now and the disease can no longer hurt her or us. On Thursday, I will try to not let my sadness overshadow what the day is meant to be. A day of thankfulness for all I have. Most importantly, love and family.

Happy Thanksgiving.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 11-11-18.

My mom has been on my mind more than usual lately. I’ve been overly emotional in many ways. The tears seem to be at the ready all the time and even fleeting thoughts easily release them. At home, at work, in the car or even during my therapy sessions at Target, the tears present themselves with little to no warning.

I’ve always prided myself on being a strong person. And while I can wear my emotions on my sleeve, I know how to solider up and put on a brave face. Lately, however, my “tough girl” alter ego must be hibernating. I’ve been questioning why I can’t seem to keep it together. The only answer I have come up with is that the holidays are quickly approaching.

This will be my first holiday season officially without my mom. Even though in the past few years, Mom didn’t know whether it was Thanksgiving day, Christmas day or even August 24th, she was still THERE. Even though she didn’t wake up extra early on Thanksgiving day to start roasting the turkey, she was still THERE. Even though she wasn’t able to pick up the discarded boxes on Christmas morning to make room for more present opening, she was still THERE. And even though she didn’t have us laughing with her one-liners and anecdotes, she was still THERE.

A few years ago my husband and I made the decision to celebrate the holidays at our home, especially Christmas. We wanted our children to wake up in their home on Christmas morning to discover what Santa left us. I am so grateful we started that tradition, because I don’t think I could stomach Christmas day at my parents house, without Mom there.

Mom was always the planner. Christmas mornings with her there always went smoothly, at least it seemed so to us. When it was time to open presents a pair of scissors were already on the table for those pesky ribbons that didn’t easily untie. A trash bag was nearby for the discarded wrappings. The labels on the packages were marked with nicknames or contained inside jokes that evoked fun memories. And there was always at least one present you weren’t expecting that Mom just knew you wanted or needed.

My favorite gifts were usually in my stocking. I could always count on a pair of fuzzy socks with the grips on the bottom. I prefer to be barefoot in life as much as possible and Mom always worried that my feet were cold. Whether it was a new tube of mascara, a crossword puzzle book or a gift card to my favorite store, the stocking treasures were always perfect. And even as adults, my brother and I could count on a roll of spree candy for him and sweettarts for me. The year the candy was absent in our stockings, was rough.

Mom was always the hardest to shop for. She always said she didn’t need anything. I think that was because her family was gift enough and she enjoyed giving to us way more than receiving gifts of her own. Mom always thought of everyone else, before she worried about herself. That is a lesson in itself.

So as I approach the holiday season without Mom, I will try to draw strength from her. I will plan what I can without letting the stress take over. I will remember that big flashy gifts don’t make an imprint on your heart and that it is the little things that end up meaning the most. I will remember to try to enjoy every moment and that laughter transcends time. I will let the tears fall should they come, for it is ok to be emotionally vulnerable, especially this time of year. I will try to enjoy the holidays even though my heart hurts. And this year, I will make sure the scissors are already on the table Christmas morning and there are fuzzy socks in the kids’ stockings.