Mothers, Daughters & Love

My mother and me.

[dropcap2 variation=”teal”]E[/dropcap2]very night, before she goes to sleep, my daughter chooses a new name for herself. Tonight she was baby humpback whale. I was momma whale. She’s been baby turtle, baby table, baby monster, baby dragonfly and many many more. And I’ve been mommy each of those. Daddy also gets a part in this game, though she usually wants me to be the one to hold her hand as sleep comes. Most every night, I say to her, as I close her door, “Goodnight, baby whale-monster-kitty-thing. I love you.” And she responds “Goodnight momma whale-monster-kitty-thing. I love you too.” And I smile, and wish these days could last forever.

Today was my mother’s birthday. She turned 76. We weren’t sure she would make it to this age. My mom, Barbara Mahal, is now older than my father ever got to be. Five years older than my friend Anne was before she passed. Twenty-six years older than my friend Stan Allison was when we lost him.

Mom is in what is probably the last six months of her life. That makes me sad, yet I find myself grateful too. Grateful that we’ve had the time to cut the tangled yarn and start fresh, grateful that her mentality is still there even though her body is fading, grateful that she seems to be facing life with a measure of happiness every day, instead of gloom.
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Mom and I have a complicated past too entwined with needs and disabilities, with heartaches and disappointments, with anger and suffering to put in any simple terms. But through it all, one thing has been very clear.

I love you, momma whale.

Happy birthday.