Ree’s musings

It's been a hard morning. My thoughts are all disjointed. I keep thinking about my late aunt. She died last year in November.

I miss her. She understood me so well, maybe even better than I understood her. I could show her all my emotional attachment to a book and its heroine, and I never had to fear that she would think it was silly. She loved books, as I do, and children, and animals. She loved to have a cat sitting in her lap.

Today my blog reading list turned up someone's experience with the Little Women film (Winona Ryder version). I had watched that when it was new and caught it again a few months ago. It really brought home how much I miss my aunt. With her, I wouldn't owe any explanation for how much I identified with Jo March and how seeing the movie again was something like a family reunion for me: seeing people whom I knew but had not seen for years, people I loved.

(It is worth noting that I probably own more Louisa May Alcott books than most people own books, period. I have an obsession stemming from finding and loving Little Women when I was just a little girl.)

She would have totally gotten it. We would have compared childhood literary influences and heroines.

My aunt loved chocolate pudding too. Toward the end of her life, her disabilities made it impossible for her to eat it neatly, so when she did have pudding, she ate it as privately as possible and made a merry mess. Because it was chocolate pudding and she loved it.

Ever since she died, whenever the thought occurred, I would glance upward and say or merely think, "Chocolate pudding." Originally it was, "God, you had better have chocolate pudding there for her. Chocolate. Pudding." Over time it got distilled down to the two words and the same insistence.

This morning, before the sun came up, I couldn't sleep for these thoughts swirling. I went to the fridge, got the last cup of chocolate pudding, and ate it in slow contemplation. It's the closest I could come to sharing pudding with her.

I miss her so, so much.

I'm watching my little (not yet school age) nephew this weekend and he is adorable.

He wanted chocolate milk. He got chocolate milk and a little teasing: "You'll turn into chocolate milk!"

"No I won't," he told me seriously.

"Well, it might take a little while to kick in."

A little afterward, I asked him questions about days of the week. "What do Nana and Ree and Happy do on Sunday?"

"Go to church!" He's right.

"Are you going to come to church with us tomorrow?"

"Yeah, unless I turn into chocolate milk!"

So cute!

I just do not have energy this week. I babysat the nephew on Friday and Sunday, and it's only today (Thursday, very nearly Friday, according to my computer clock) that I can walk without an ache in my elbow and calf.

Yes, about that elbow pain: The nephew came to church with me Sunday morning. He ran all around the building, with me a few steps behind. When it came time to actually enter the sanctuary, he flung himself on the floor with all the ardor of a Byronic hero.

Nephew's mom can't pick him up anymore. (Medical issues - nothing dire.) He must be used to exploiting that. Unfortunately for him, I don't have that limitation. I handed my purse to the nearest bystander, hefted the little brat, and carried him into the pew. Buwahaha! It was worth the ouch!

He's usually a very good kidlet, but he gets crabby when he's hungry. He perked up considerably after a cookie and lemonade. No, much more than you're thinking; I have never seen a child so excited to sing "Hallelu, hallelu, hallelu, hallelujah, Praise ye the Lord!" Except that's not how he sang it. Let me try something.

Hallelu, hallelu, hallelu, hallelujah;
Praise ye the Lord!!!!!

Yes, that's more like it. The director of the little kids' choir sounded very pleased.

I hope he never loses his white-hot enthusiasm. He could sometimes stand to bank the fires a bit, mind, but he's young and has plenty of time to learn that. Such an awesome little guy. Not that I'm wrapped around his little finger, except that yes, yes I am. :D

As for me, I banged up some Ree toes in the course of writing this entry. Mild pain, my old friend, I thought you were just leaving and here you are. Again. Yeah. But if that's the worst I can say about my situation, you know I'm doing fine.

My mother.

I don't know where to begin to describe her. She's a lofty example to aspire to: an excellent cook; a careful, safe driver; the best mother I could have.

I mean that, though I'm not sure she quite believes me. There are other mothers who are better equipped to handle a child who is profoundly disabled, or to help a child discover disparate parts of their racial identity, or shield a child against paparazzi. But I am not any of those children. I don't need those particular protections. For who I am, I could not ask for a better mother. I would want no other mother.

She has embraced me when I was at my lowest ebbs and cheered me on toward my highest peaks. Somehow she still loves me, despite knowing me better than anyone else knows. I live in awe of her selflessness and compassion. She's more than just the best mother I could have: she is also my friend, one whom I prize.

There is not an inch of my skin that is not written with my mother's genes, not a memory in my head that is not somehow shaped by the way my mother raised me, and I know that I am much improved for it. If I am sometimes petty or cruel, it is in spite of her teaching and her example; she raised to me know better, although I sometimes shamefully ignore that. And if I am occassionally caring, diligent, or generous, it is because my mother taught it to me.

If girls learn to mother from their mothers, then I know that I would be a strong, loving mother. Following her example could achieve no less.

If I thought it would make my mother happy to hear me yelling her praises from the rooftops, I would do it even now, at three in the morning in the pouring rain and pounding thunder. My mother did teach me to be sensible, however; if I must yell, I will wait for a saner hour and a drier roof.

I wish that I could write her a poem declaring the wonder I feel for her, something beautiful and rhythmic and worthy of her. But my poetic talent is insufficient. Anything I write would not be good enough to adequately convey the way I feel. Even as I write this piece, I keenly feel its flaws, but I hope it conveys what I mean regardless.

Someday, Mom, I will get things collated into that poem you deserve. In lieu of that, you have my endless admiration.

I love you, Mom. Thank you so much for being Mom.