Tag Archives: writing

MOTHERING WITHOUT MY MOTHER

I’m in the middle of writing thank you cards to people who showed up for my family in person or from afar after my Mom died. I browse online for Lennon’s first birthday invitations now that we picked a theme. Airplanes, his newest obsession. The attempt to lighten the emotional toll works for a bit but not nearly as long as I hoped. 

Snail mail is an art my Mom instilled in me. Her handwriting is as distinctive as a finger print. A swirly mixture of cursive with loops found in extra places. The illusion of Santa faded around third grade— my brother broke the news but the gift tags alone were damning evidence.

This is Motherhood. Carrying the weight of the world, grief of a loved one and the mental load of everyday tasks while nurturing a tiny human who counts on you for everything. There’s no clocking out from it. When those tiny hands and big eyes reach for me, everything else fades into the background. It’s the greatest practice in staying present. In some ways, I wonder how it might be delaying the way I process my Mom’s death. His joy is also a big part of my healing. Both are true. 

Losing my mom within the same year of becoming one is like losing a security blanket of 30+ years. I was front row to the early and end stages of life side by side in the most humbling way. A lot of my confidence as a parent came from Mom as my witness. I grieve our relationship. I grieve the relationship she and Lennon won’t get to have. The cloud covered birthday invitation with a vintage plane will only be addressed to Dad now. Mom would’ve volunteered to help with set-up and clean-up. “Order more food!” she would insist while waving her credit card in the air. A perfectly wrapped tower of gifts with her swirly half-cursive script would fill a whole corner of a table. She planned all my birthday’s, put together my Halloween costumes and helped me with my science fair projects putting her unique touch on everything. Mama Pancho made occasions special.

Today marks a month since she’s been gone. The logistics of Mom’s service and being surrounded with family kept me busy but now that we’ve returned to our routine in Georgia it’s been both a relief and strangely foreign. Trying to move forward and find our new normal without her feels like a quiet betrayal.

Grief comes in waves. We run into neighbors who innocently ask where we’ve been. What we’ve been up to. I soak up the sympathy and shock on their faces like a sponge when I break the news it wasn’t for a vacation. Friends kindly welcome us back in town wanting to make plans I’m unsure I can keep. It’s all dependent on how I’m feeling any given day.

I knew I’d find comfort in the familiar embrace of friends and family. I hadn’t anticipated the healing I’d find within my Mom’s circle of girlfriends. Most of these women I haven’t seen since I was a young girl. They were colleagues working at the hospital for many years. The hospital where I was born; the same one my Mom spent her final days. I messaged these ladies about Mom’s passing with the intention of sharing service details. Instead they took me in. Held me. We have our own group chat now filled with comforting support. They have no obligation to send me regular check-ins. I think that’s why they mean so much. 

One of the ladies, Elvi mailed a beautiful photo album capturing years of their monthly ladies nights. I know Mom looked forward to getting dolled up and catching up with her lifelong friends. Retirement and half of them being strewn across different towns didn’t stop them from making the effort. I enjoyed seeing her from a different perspective –more than a Mom and a wife. More than lab techs in white coats. She was in her element. My Mom could make a friend anywhere, and she did. What I found more admirable was her special knack at holding onto them. Even her high school friends kept in touch via a Facebook group where they’d plan meet ups and reunions on the West Coast. It broke her heart to cancel a long awaited trip with them last year during chemo treatment. She loved and treasured people. I find comfort knowing how big she was loved in return. 

What a beautiful gift it is to have a security blanket — a sense of home within a person — and to now have the chance to be that for someone else. There’s not enough thank you cards in the world to express it.

THE WOBBLY TABLE TURNS ONE

Where did the time go? It feels like I published my first post yesterday, Welcome to my Writing Corner. I immediately shut my computer and went on a hike after to settle my nerves. “What if no one reads it?….Yikes, but what if people actually do??”

After some fresh air and vitamin D, I was reminded of why I created the blog in the first place. The Wobbly Table is my safe space to create. 

I’m an over-sharer by nature. Always a short step away from avalanching into detailed stories and heart-to-hearts. Some people build a protective wall to keep people out, I provide a swinging door to let people in (as long as I don’t have to leave the comforts of home too often). Long-form posts are the perfect vehicle to do that. For the last year, the blog has been akin to a room in my home over a corner of the internet. 

Blogs are like a dinosaur to the internet-world.

Maybe that’s why I’m still drawn to them after all this time. I do my part in keeping the art form alive by following a handful of inspiring accounts. I look to Pretty Little Fawn for her cinematic lifestyle posts, Keiko Lynn for her colorful retro wardrobe, A Beautiful Mess for DIY projects and Out of the Blue for insightful words from an author I adore. Their social media gave me hints of their unique voice but seeking out their blogs offered a better understanding of who they are as creatives and as lovely human beings. We’re all so much more than a photo captioned by a single sentence.

Writing won’t go out of style.

I’m convinced WordPress will outlast the Facebook’s and Instagram’s of the world. The blog community is patient and intentional about where they’re spending their time. I picture a reader nursing a coffee or tea as they click around my page, an image that makes me smile wider than any amount of followers or stats ever could.

In the same vein as blogs, I tend to lean into the charm of older things: I listen to music from generations long before me, keep physical journals, rent books at the library, send off snail mail via post and tune into NPR on long drives. Truth be told, they’re some of my favorite pastimes. Despite my some-what dated sensibilities, they shape the old soul that I am. 

Sunday drives were often spent listening to my favorite NPR radio show, The Moth: The Art & Craft of Storytelling. Similar to a poetry slam, guests would throw their name in a hat and if selected, they’d share a prepared story with a predetermined theme of the night. Without flashcards or slides to reference, they’d stand in front of an audience and spill their heart onto the stage. Judges then pick a winner who advances to bigger stages with bigger audiences. In case you miss them live or on the radio, crowd favorites are neatly archived on the Moth podcast. For a moment you feel like you’re front row to the storyteller’s life. Sometimes they came in the form of authors or comedians but most of the time they were ordinary people like you and me. Some stories make me laugh, some make me cry – the best offerings accomplish both. A few years back I finally got to sit in the audience of a live Moth show in San Francisco. The energy and immediate connection among strangers that evening was palpable. Not a soul was talking over the performers or pulling out phones to capture or escape the moment. Everybody got a standing ovation. It’s one of the most supportive rooms I’ve had the pleasure to be a part of. 

To be a good storyteller and writer, you have to first be an observer. When the words don’t come easy, I find it best to listen. To read. I’m a student still learning the craft; sharpening my skills with every post.

The Wobbly Table is my way of getting on stage and sharing my story. Perhaps the day will come when I throw my name in the hat and stand on a real-life stage to a crowd of kind faces. To the reader of this post, thank you for pulling up a chair to my wobbly table and listening as I practice.