I Turned 30 Today… | A Letter to my Mother

I turned 30 today.  It was remarkably uneventful.  30 should be a big deal…and if you were here, I’m sure it would be.  You were always so good at making a Christmas birthday feel special – not lost in the holiday.  That first year you were gone, others tried to make it special.  But I guess part of being an adult is that birthdays aren’t that important.  But 30 should’ve been important, celebrated even.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to make a big deal about the fact that people didn’t drop what they were doing and let the world revolve around me for a day.  But you would have.  And you would have made my favorite cake, red velvet, oh, how I miss red velvet cake.  And we would have gone shopping.  Like we always do.  Did you know that I still go shopping on my birthday?  Every year, for six years I’ve gone shopping on my birthday without you.  But I’m not alone, Gavin goes with me.  That first year was…fun…he was just 2 months old.  But he has turned in to a great little shopping buddy.

Oh, you should see him.  He’s 5 now.  It’s so hard watching him grow up because he’s like a living, breathing marker of how long you’ve been gone.  Almost 6 months to the day after you left this world, he entered.

So, I turned 30 today.  And so many things have changed in the past 6 years.  I’m supposed to be an adult.  But I feel like I haven’t aged at all in the last six years.  I still feel like a young, naïve, uncertain young woman who needs her mother.   I’ve learned to think on my feet and trust my instincts.  But it would be so much easier if I could call you and find out what you think, what your instincts are.

Everyone tells me I’m just like you.  I look like you, act like you, talk like you, think like you.  I take it as the highest compliment.  I can’t think of a better person to be like.  I know I’ve always looked like you but recently, when I look in the mirror, I SEE you.  I think I’m looking more and more like you each year.  It’s a little bittersweet.

Everything is a little bittersweet.  One thing I’ve learned about grief is that after time, going on day-to-day gets easier, bearable, doable.  But the better the day-to-day gets, the harder the “special” days get.  Birthdays, births, holidays… it’s like I’m rolling along doing fine and – BAM – I’m hit with the reminder brick.  The one that reminds me that you’re not here and how could I possibly be acting like I’m doing fine?  I hate that brick and I love that brick.  I love remembering you, I just wish it didn’t make me so sad.

So I turned 30 today and I think a lot about when you turned 30.  I don’t remember much about it, I was only 4.  I know your mom was sick and she died only a month later.  I wish you were here so we could talk about how it feels to lose your mom when you need her most.  I never thought to talk to you about how you handled your own mother’s death.  I know you had to have missed her terribly.  Did you want to call her every time I did something cute, smart or aggravating?  I want to call and talk to you about Gavin all the time.