Remember

And hold in mind.

Hello (again, if you’re returning!) 👋🏾 I’m Ingrid and I publish Permission. I share words about my world as a grieving woman, in middle age, as a mother of boys, as an Australian living in The Netherlands, and all the nuance (and mess) that goes along with these. To know more you are welcome to check out my About page, and to read more you are welcome to check out Permission.

The etymology of the word remember is originally from Latin, re expressing intensive force and memor meaning mindful. It was then adapted into late Latin as rememorai meaning to call to mind, and later in Old French as remembrer.

There are many days that make me miss Mum more than usual. Her birthday, 1 April, is one of them. In the lead up to these remembering days, I feel a heaviness. The longer we go on without her, the longer it sometimes takes me to work out why I’m feeling that heaviness. I notice I’m feeling more tired. I have a desire to do nothing, go nowhere, and curl up bed. I don’t want to partake in the usual joys of my life. Instead, my go-to is to watch old seasons of Grey’s Anatomy (seasons 8 and 10 were the best), eat too many peanut M&Ms, and wallow.

That’s a pretty clear indication, to me and those around me, that something is wrong.

I haven’t found a surefire way through these days. I’m not sure if there is one single way to get through these days. I’m always looking – self-development junkie that I am – for ways to be better, stronger, less impacted. To use the tools I learned in grief therapy to make these days manageable, to not feel so heavy, so lonely, so sad.

It hasn’t worked.

That’s not to say there hasn’t been improvement. If I think back to the firsts without Mum – the first Christmas, my first birthday, the first Mother’s Day – I flailed. There was no ‘getting through’ or ‘being ok’ on those days. As in the early fog of grief, I felt untethered and lost. I could not comprehend this new world, these celebratory days, without her. Most of these days were special because of what she had created for me over the years.

Mum loved giving cards; birthday cards, Christmas cards, anytime cards. It’s one of the reasons why special days were special – because of Mum’s heartfelt cards. She put so much thought and care into finding the right card with the right message inside, and then filling the blank space with her own words of love, encouragement, care or all of the above.

I’ll never forget that my first Mother’s Day card was from her. I was in the early months of new motherhood, doubting every choice I made and feeling utterly at sea with it all. And always, always feeling like I would never be as good a mum as my Mum was to me. When I told her this, she was shocked and somewhat confused. She had never seen herself as a particularly great mother, though of course not a bad mother either. Mothering was just what she did, and she tried to do it better in some ways than it was done for her, and that was that. Sentimental about her children yet unsentimental about motherhood, my mother was. But seeing my struggle with it – not so much the mothering but more the sense of myself as a mother, she found a way to comfort and reassure with one of her cards. I was in floods of tears from the beautiful things she wrote (probably some of the hormones in there too) and took confidence from seeing myself the way she saw me – as a loving mother doing my very best.

I’ll also never forget my last birthday card from her, given while she was terminally ill and I was caring for her. A card that I took her to buy because she wasn’t mobile anymore. A card that she struggled to write as she lost strength in her hands. A card I have carried with me from home to home since she gave it to me almost seven years ago, but that I can’t bring myself to read unless I’m at my strongest.

It's natural to think about what we would be doing on Mum’s birthday if she was here and feel all the associated feelings. And I’ll do some of that. But as well, on her birthday, on this remembering day, I’m going to call to mind the beautiful times with Mum. The gift of birthdays past, the cards, the cakes, the adventures, the memories. I’m going to hold in mind how much she loved me, and birthdays, and celebrating her children.

And I might just write her a card.

Thumbnail photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash.