Christmas thoughts of my mother

Christmas is over, I finished most of my Christmas knitting, and for the things I simply ran out of time to do, I substituted another gift, so the stress is over. This Christmas was a bummer for me, not because I didn't enjoy watching my boys enjoy all the wonder of Christmas or because it's a lot of work, which I don't mind doing to make the holidays special. I really missed my mother this year.

I miss the anxiety and hard work and worrying and wondering involved in getting or making her a gift. I could have given her a stick of gum with a bow on it, and she would have exclaimed and fussed over it and admired it from all angles. She sewed and crafted, so she appreciated the time involved in making a homemade gift, but appreciated anything you gave her. She enjoyed a well-set 'fancy' table, and I make it a point to use her 'special' plates, silverware, crystal and linens for Christmas and Thanksgiving, even though it all has to washed by hand aferwards and the boys ask why don't we just eat at the kitchen table like always and why is the dining room only used twice a year.

Any new or unusual dish was first admired, then sampled, then discussed at length. A creative table centerpiece was a must, even though you eventually had to move it out of the way to make room for the food. She would cut the boy's ham into such small pieces that her own food was almost cold by the time she was finished. Yet, if the boys dropped food on the tablecloth or spilled their milk, she didn't bat an eye, she thought everything they did was wonderful.

My mom believed that anything worth doing was worth doing right, and a curtain fold that was misbehaving or a flower arrangement that had been whacked too many times with a whiffleball were very carefully set to right, even if it took hours and would be back in disarray on her next visit.

My mother absolutely hated the cold, yet she would have been sitting shivering right next to me at the boys' hockey games or any sport they chose to play.

My mother died from cancer when she was 64. She never got to retire, or see her grandchildren grow up. I never got to ask her a lot of things, because we never made it to the quiet time of life where you are no longer defined by jobs and children and home renovations and all the things you spend your early adult years chasing after. We never got to set down and talk about things, from her childhood, growing up, her parents, or anything. Towards the end she asked me if there was anything that I wanted to ask her, and I was so paralyzed from fear and exhausted from working full time, taking care of two small boys and driving back and forth to Norman to doctors and hospitals, that I just couldn't form a coherent thought. I should have asked her so many things, but I didn't.

Two days after she died, I was lying in bed about to drift off to sleep when I smelled her perfume. She was letting me know that she was alright. Sometimes I walk into my dining room and smell her perfume. I joke that she's just making sure that I'm taking care of her pretty things. I have a running list in my head of Things That I Should Have Done Differently while she was still alive. I know that if I were to show it to her, she would tell me that I did everything right and that I did the best that I could. As usual, I wouldn't believe her, but I'd feel better that she said it. I'll just have to ask her later.