I'm a mother who insists on dressing my daughter in clothes from my own childhood. It brings me great delight to take pictures of her and compare them to photos of myself in the same outfit. I promised myself I would do this only as long as she doesn't protest, but I don't imagine I'll be keeping that promise. (And as an aside, why did my mom keep vestiges of my youthful attire, but none of her circa-1985 matching outfits?!?)
This morning, on our walk to the park, I was overwhelmed with love for this little Bean, so grateful I get to know her and call her mine. As she's running down the hill alongside Nesta, giggling, wearing a homemade pink dress of my youth and one of my scarves ("no jacket, just scarf," she said before bolting out the door), shouting "look at me runnin'!," I smile and giggle and tell her that I wish Grandma Nancy had met her, and how much she would adore her, too.
"Grandma Nancy in my dreams," she tells me. My eyes tear up a bit, wishing this were something she came up with herself, instead knowing I had planted the notion several weeks ago.
Sometimes, when she doesn't want to sleep, needs attention, or wants me to entertain her on car rides, she demands "tell me stowies." Often these stories are about when Mama and Daddy were little, how they met and married, what they liked to do before there was a Francie, or about her birth or life as a "tiiiiiiiny baby." And sometimes these stories might actually be little anecdotes about my mom, to integrate her into our lives in a way that she was not actually able to. Obviously, even when it's past bedtime and I'm snuggling her in her "bigkidbed" (which she says as one word), I can't deny my daughter stories about her late grandmother.
"Grandma Nancy in my dreams," she tells me. My eyes tear up a bit, wishing this were something she came up with herself, instead knowing I had planted the notion several weeks ago.
Sometimes, when she doesn't want to sleep, needs attention, or wants me to entertain her on car rides, she demands "tell me stowies." Often these stories are about when Mama and Daddy were little, how they met and married, what they liked to do before there was a Francie, or about her birth or life as a "tiiiiiiiny baby." And sometimes these stories might actually be little anecdotes about my mom, to integrate her into our lives in a way that she was not actually able to. Obviously, even when it's past bedtime and I'm snuggling her in her "bigkidbed" (which she says as one word), I can't deny my daughter stories about her late grandmother.
We have come to refer to my mom as "Grandma Nancy," for as long as the Bean has been alive. There is a photo of her, a 20-something in a paisley hot-pants suit, with her trademark (long, real and always painted) nails, and a totally vintage hairstyle hanging on the gallery wall in our living room. There are several other pictures of her around the house - as a toddler in the Chinese outfit my grandpa Popsi got her while overseas, kissing my dad on their wedding day, of me sitting on her lap. In the past several months, the Bean has taken a particular interest in the lady.
So one night several weeks ago, after appeasing her demands to "tell me stowies of Gwamma Atsy," I kissed her lips, wished her sweet dreams, and that if she wanted to learn more about Grandma Nancy, she should ask for a visit in her dreams. I said this because for 13 years I have wanted to see and remember and know my mom in my own dreams, and on the rare occasion she has made an appearance, she has never so much as acknowledged my existence, as if I'm invisible and in a different dimension. But that's a whole different story.
The Bean knows exactly three things about my mom:
- "Gwamma Atsy like pigs. And laughin'."
- She also know that when we sing a poor man's rendition of The Beatles' "Let It Be" at nap or bedtime, that it was one of my mom's favorite songs.
I guess she also knows that Grandma Nancy was "sick" and "died" (which she always says with a head tilt and almost a sing-song pitch). Sometime in the early portion of the Bean's "why?" phase, inquiring about why Grandma Nancy wasn't here with us, I made the mistake of saying that she was sick and had died. I immediately regretted my word choice, knowing that "sick" is a word we use rather commonly, and not wanting to activate her already-hypochondriacal tendencies (this two-year-old is obsessed with "owies," how the body heals itself, videos of herself spitting-up, a photo of her covered in her own puke, and photos of Uncle B's bloodied face after he was assaulted). So now I try to use the word "cancer" in place of "sick," but I fear it's too little too late.
So one night several weeks ago, after appeasing her demands to "tell me stowies of Gwamma Atsy," I kissed her lips, wished her sweet dreams, and that if she wanted to learn more about Grandma Nancy, she should ask for a visit in her dreams. I said this because for 13 years I have wanted to see and remember and know my mom in my own dreams, and on the rare occasion she has made an appearance, she has never so much as acknowledged my existence, as if I'm invisible and in a different dimension. But that's a whole different story.
The Bean knows exactly three things about my mom:
- "Gwamma Atsy like pigs. And laughin'."
- She also know that when we sing a poor man's rendition of The Beatles' "Let It Be" at nap or bedtime, that it was one of my mom's favorite songs.
I guess she also knows that Grandma Nancy was "sick" and "died" (which she always says with a head tilt and almost a sing-song pitch). Sometime in the early portion of the Bean's "why?" phase, inquiring about why Grandma Nancy wasn't here with us, I made the mistake of saying that she was sick and had died. I immediately regretted my word choice, knowing that "sick" is a word we use rather commonly, and not wanting to activate her already-hypochondriacal tendencies (this two-year-old is obsessed with "owies," how the body heals itself, videos of herself spitting-up, a photo of her covered in her own puke, and photos of Uncle B's bloodied face after he was assaulted). So now I try to use the word "cancer" in place of "sick," but I fear it's too little too late.
Grandma Nancy also gets an occasional random nod aside from "stowy" time, like when the Bean told me she hit someone at school, and when I asked her who taught her that, she blamed "Gwamma Atsy." Or the time she commented on my earrings, saying "just like Gwamma Atsy." Or when she's doing art.
Francie, coloring with crayons: "Draw lions."
Me: "Okay."
Her: "Gwamma Atsy like lions."
Me: "Hmm, she did, huh. Did she tell you that?"
Her: "No."
Me: "Then how do you know?"
Her: She died.
Every so often it breaks my heart (seriously, into, like, a million little pieces) that my mom isn't here to experience this journey with me, to observe me as a mother, to know the child who would have made her a grandmother, to likely share my obsession for the funny things this toddler says. But in her absence, I'm grateful to know that at least pigs, contagious laughter, and "Let It Be" will endure.
And because I can't put my new iPhone away (it's a 5s, because with the actually-new iPhone 6, the 5's were on sale), here is a video from this morning during a brief chat about Grandma Nancy:
And as an aside, one of my mom's college besties, Marilyn, and her husband Ross, spent an afternoon visiting with us in Portland a couple weeks ago, which just made my day to have her meet the Bean. There is no other women who I sense my mother in as much as I do in Marilyn. And besides, I always wanted to have her as my mother-in-law, anyway (long before I met Alex).
I loved reading this-- so much of it resonates with the conversations we have about Grandpa Mark. I try to dream him, too, but it's only happened 3 times in almost four years.
ReplyDelete