An Imperfect 10.

One of my favorite ornaments sits atop my tree - it’s a picture of my Ma and Dad, on the last Christmas she was here. 

Isn’t that the bitch of life? Never really, really knowing when the last of things will be? The last “I love you,” the last hug, the last words said in anger, the last laughs, the last birthday candles, the last time friends or family get together before one is taken from this earth.

I’ve stared at that ornament now for ten Christmas seasons. Ten. This is the tenth Christmas I will spend without my Ma. You'd think it would get easier by now; it hasn't. It just got different. I. Am. Different. Everyone around me is different. And with that (in)difference, each Christmas gets a little more imperfect than the last. 

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My Ma was the BEST, most thoughtful gift-giver on the planet. Not that Christmas is about getting the gifts, but well, you know. So many Christmas mornings were spent unwrapping things that I had mentioned I had liked, maybe one time, in April of that particular year. And. She. Remembered. I know now it's not the gifts I miss - I miss being heard; I miss being understood without having to explain myself. I miss being a consideration. I just miss her and the way things used to be.

Sometimes, though, she would give you the most practical, yet ridiculous gifts: like the headlight, for example, she gifted to Jim on one of his first Christmases with us. He was like, "Ok thanks" in more of a questiony tone. But alas, that damn headlamp came in handy more times than you could even imagine. Or how about the time she gave me the head scratcher - which was purely ridiculous but helpful when I had a migraine. Or the dream violin that I thought I was playing but instead hit the "demo" button. Or even the time she wrapped up 3 of the same cardigans because that is really how she shopped. I could go on but I think you get the picture. 

There was never a Christmas that went by that once all the gifts were unwrapped, Ma would turn to one of us and say, "Hmmmm... did you open...? Uh, hang on," followed by a quick trip to the depths of her closet to find the missing item, met with laughs from all of us. 

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My kids are getting older but still believe in the magic of Christmas. Watching their eyes light up on Christmas morning as they open gifts that they pointed out to me 8 months before the 25th of December makes my heart smile and reminds me that I learned from the best. The. Absolute. Best. 

And as indifferent as I have become to some aspects of this life I cannot change, the Imperfect 10th Christmas without The Best will have some smiles, some tears, and definitely some laughs (but definitely no headlamps). 

More.

 "More."

I've sat here and stared at this screen for a good twenty minutes thinking about how today marks the 9th anniversary of the last word my Ma spoke to me: "More."

"More." A tiny word with such astronomical implications. 

More money, more love, more happiness, more cookies, more sleep, more freedom, more memories, more days on this earth. I imagine this is just a simple list of what people want more of. I know what I wish I could have had more of: time. 

...

In the years since Ma has left this earth for what comes next, I have come to the realization that I am moderately good at a lot of things: teaching, essential oils, crafts, and being a good daughter and friend come to mind. Please don't correct me after reading this because it's simply reality - I'm just proficient in these things and that's okay with me- I've learned to embrace the "moderately good" parts of who I am.  I do like to think I am great at one thing, though, and that's being a Mom - because I learned from the best. When my kids come in from playing in the snow, I have a warm blanket straight from the dryer handy. When they snuggle in close, I ask them, "Are you snug as a bug in a rug?" When they least expect a surprise, one is awaiting them, just because. When they have a fever, I put a cool rag on their foreheads. Through all of this and so much more, they have learned who their GeeGee was, because it's more than imperative to me to keep her memory alive: something I will never stop doing for them, for me, and for anyone who ever loved her. 

In the years since Ma has left this earth for what comes next, nothing and everything has changed. There is a school of thought that speaks to the idea that grief gets easier; it doesn't. You just get different. I'm different. Dad's different. Jim's different. Jackie's different. 

I'm different in that I have learned to let go of what I cannot control.  Sure, I still am allowed a five minute meltdown sometimes, but then I force myself to accept whatever "it" is. I have learned that people will make choices I don't agree with, but it's not me who has to live with the consequence of those choices (although this is not entirely true - see my first sentiment).  I have learned that not everything will make sense, the triumphs and disappointments included. But the single biggest thing I have learned is that nothing will surpass the biggest disappointment of my life: that my Ma didn't get to spend time with her grandchildren, and that will never be different. That? That I will never accept. She deserved more. I deserved more. Jimmy and Maddy deserve more.

...

When I tell you, "I love you more," it's because I probably do... because I learned that from my Ma. To love hard and with everything you have, but not to forget where you came from, what you've been through, or those who have gone to the next place before you. When I tell you, "I love you more most," it's because I want you to shut up because I am right and you are wrong, something I also learned from my Ma. 

No one misses you Ma, more, than me.

Copyright 2021 More Seasoned Then • Dana Prezembel Hackett