I can't begin to count the number of times each day that I have a momentary urge to call my Mom. It's never over big things, it's things like telling her how cute my new dog is, or about the picture-taking trip Mark and I took, or to try to convince her one more time that she'd really love living in Iowa. That desire to talk to her is fleeting before I remember that there's no Mom at the other end of the phone. She's gone and all that's left is silence at the other end.
I was never "tied to her apron strings" but I did depend on her for so much. She was my confidant and my friend as well as the touchy-feeley, big hugs and chocolate cookie baking Mom. Of course there were things we didn't share, but we did confide in each other and support each other when things got hard. Whenever I felt lonely, confused or worried, she was the first person I would call. When my son's illness seemed overwhelming and I didn't want to get out of bed to deal with another day, calling her would give me the push I needed to persevere.
I've had lots of "issues" in my life that she seemed to understand more than anyone. Those feelings of abandonment and the fear of being left that come with being an adoptee were ones that she understood, maybe because of her own tumultuous upbringing. When I struggled with my erratic emotions,even before I knew I had Bipolar disorder, she was the one who could bring me back to reality. She was my lifeline when I felt I had no one to turn to.
What I really miss are the long conversations over endless pots of coffee. I miss sitting on a bench at the mall and leering at the sexy guys. I miss her bawdy sense of humor. I miss seeing her hold my dad's hand and share a kiss, even after almost 60 years of marriage. She taught me how to love my spouse and my children in an unconditional way. She gave me permission to be myself and to not give a damn what anyone else thought of me, how I dressed or what I believed. She insisted that I stand up for what I believe in, no matter how unpopular my opinion was. To her, it was perfectly ok for me to march to the beat of a different drummer while she stood on the sidelines and cheered me on.
My friends loved her. When I was in high school, I would often come home to find one or more friends already sitting at the kitchen table holding a conversation and eating cookies. Some of the guys I knew had huge crushes on Mom, but how could they help themselves? She was pretty, funny and and interested in what they had to say. I was a little jealous of her because she was what I wanted to be. She had long fingernails and always dressed nicely and even at her most casual, she had a certain elegance about her.
It's a strange feeling. I know Mom is gone but there's a part of me that can't accept that. It's a surreal feeling that feels like a terrible dream I keep dreaming. I want to stop grieving and stop missing her so much.

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