Neon Number

So, yesterday, May 10, 2011, was a big day. I was officially older than my mother was when she died. May 9 was not a good day. I kept feeling, not like I should be dying, really, but did catch myself thinking, "Mom only had about two more hours...." And I was short-tempered, but I think that's because part of me is a little jealous of you. You have me, a mother, who loves you and dotes on you, who is able to stay home with you and capture all your little smiles and charms. You have what I have wished for most of my life, and I'm sure there will be days that you'll be angry at me and I'll struggle to understand how you can possibly feel that way when you have me, when I'm still here.

But that was Monday and I was determined to mark Tuesday in some special way if I could. I thought a lot about what would be meaningful - driving off to spend the day in WV, tramping around in the woods, getting a tattoo, being with family - but what I kept thinking was a muddle of what I'd do with my mom if she were still here, what I think she'd have wanted to do if she had one more day, what I'd want to do if I only had one day left, and that all distilled down to spending the day with you and with myself. Not a cliched last day, with a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower or blowing all the money in the bank account, but a last day of all the joyful small things in life, a good last day if you didn't know what was coming.

So, if your grandma was here and she came for a visit, we'd go out for breakfast, so first thing in the morning, we headed to our favorite bakery for a cinnamon roll. On the way, we saw a pair of great blue herons in flight. And then, of course, she'd want to shop for books and she'd be blown away by Half Price Books. She would, of course, buy me whatever I wanted and buy books for you too, so that's just what I did. I got you special editions of Charlotte's Web and Little House in the Big Woods, and I found myself looking for something meaningful or at least a favorite of your grandma's. But no Daphne du Maurier, no new Stephen King, no Taylor Caldwell. And then, just as I was turning around, I saw on the shelf the book I was reading when I suddenly, desperately knew that I wanted you - The Beach Street Knitting Society and Yarn Club (a terrible Americanized title for Divas Don't Knit - if it tells you anything there's not even a yarn club!). It's a light British novel about a woman taking control of her life and she has two little boys who are so imperfectly charming that they spoke to something inside me that wanted children. And the sequel, Needles and Pearls! I also bought myself three newer books - Sarah's Key, The Night Watch, and A Discovery of Witches - along with some pretty note cards, because, I reasoned, your grandma would have bought them for me.

And of course, she'd want to shop for you! So we went to Once Upon a Child and got you two cute dresses, four onesies, and two swimsuits.

Your grandma loved Chinese food, possible just because in West Virginia in the 1970s and 1980s, it was terribly cosmopolitan and hard to come by. So, we got Chinese takeout at Lucky House for lunch - some soup and lo mein - and headed home.

On our way, we stopped off to buy red flowers at Sambuca's. Red was your grandma's favorite color and when she died, there weren't any red flowers left at the three florists in town and there were hardly any left in neighboring counties, I imagine. I bought two big pots of geraniums for the front porch.

And for our last stop, we went to Linda's 3 in town and spent an exorbitant amount of money to have a photo of your grandma and me beautifully framed with Linda's impeccably tasteful assistance. And I picked up a little miniature monkey for your collection of small things and a little heart-shaped stoneware dish with glass in the glaze, because your grandma loved and collected hearts. When Linda started to pack it up in a recycled gift bag, she found a note that said, "You are a strong, faithful and sensitive person." It felt like a message, so I kept it.

We came home, you nursed and I ate my takeout, and then I did what I'd do if I only had one day left - laid down with you, read you stories, cuddled with you and napped with you for three hours. I tried to stare at you as hard as I would if I knew I were never going to see you again, but it either made me cry or I lost focus. I don't think we're meant to be able to really allow ourselves to think of life that way or else we'd be too terrified to really live it. I settled for just listening to you breathe and being grateful....

We got up, rushed off to pick up Daddy and stopped to get ice cream on the way home - if it was the last day, that would be a good thing. We had a lovely evening at home, just fixed a nice dinner together, gave you a bath, tucked you in and hung out on the couch. It was an awesome, perfect "last day" and I'm so glad you were in it. Being your mother is such a joy and a privilege and I hope I get to keep the job a long, long time. "But if I don't," my mind is whispering, but I've made it this far, so I'm not going to think about that. I'm going to think about having one more last day, and another one, and another one, and another one....