In 2010, my daughter Amelia was born, just three years after my mother passed away from pancreatic cancer. From the moment she arrived, complete with her quirky newborn hairstyle and chubby cheeks, I felt an overwhelming desire to ensure that she knew about the incredible woman who had shaped my life. I wanted Amelia to understand that my mom had existed, had mattered, and had loved deeply. So, I began talking to her about my mother as soon as I thought she might comprehend. However, I didn’t consider the complexities that would follow.
When Amelia was five, and I felt I had already faltered in some aspects of parenting, a wise friend named Julia, an experienced teacher, imparted invaluable advice about discussing tough topics with children. She advised that when kids inquire, we should answer truthfully but avoid overwhelming them with information they’re not ready to process.
I made a rookie mistake. At about three years old, while we were in line at the grocery store, Amelia casually exclaimed, “Your mom is dead!” I nodded, attempting to maintain my composure. But then she asked, “But where is she?” My words stumbled as I tried to explain the differing beliefs surrounding death, between those who believe in an afterlife and those who don’t. I told her that my mother believed in nature’s cycles, and that if she looked closely, she might find her spirit in the trees, sunlight, and leaves. This was just the beginning of many such conversations.
In my eagerness to share my mother’s legacy, I inadvertently raised a child who was equally enthusiastic about discussing death. “Your mom will never return, and you can’t hear her voice,” she announced during a car ride. “My grandmother is dead!” she told a delivery person one day.
Despite all these conversations surrounding loss, it took nearly two years for the pivotal question to arise. One day, while strapped in her car seat after school, Amelia asked, “Mom, how did your mom die?”
With a heavy heart, I replied, “Her body got very sick, but not like a cold. It’s a different kind of sickness.” I hesitated, thinking of the countless stories I had seen on social media about children battling cancer, and my heart raced. “It mostly happens to adults when they get very old,” I added, hoping to reassure her.
“Because she got sick, her body stopped working.”
Finally, she posed an even tougher question: “Will my body get sick and stop working one day?”
“Probably not,” I said, feeling defeated but unable to lie entirely.
“But am I going to die?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Everything has a beginning, middle, and end,” I explained gently. “Including our lives. But you are just at the beginning, and the end is a long way off.”
She sat quietly, digesting my words before asking, “Mom?”
Bracing myself for another difficult question, I replied, “Yes?”
“Can I roll down my window?”
I want my children to know everything about their grandmother, yet I also wish to protect them from the fear of loss that I experienced. I can’t guarantee that what happened to my mother won’t happen to me, but I can be there for them, answer their questions honestly, and provide comfort when needed. Between these conversations, I strive to create joyful memories that they can cherish. We jump in puddles during the rain, indulge in little surprises, and enjoy our time together, ensuring that we truly live in the moment.
The goal is to exist fully and create a legacy of love and memories.
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In summary, being a mother without my own mother poses unique challenges, but through honest communication and the creation of lasting memories, I honor her legacy while navigating the uncertainties of parenthood.