My daughter Mia was born in 2011, just a few years after my mom passed away from pancreatic cancer. The moment I laid eyes on her, with her wild newborn hair and chubby cheeks, I knew I wanted her to know all about the incredible woman who was my mom—who had loved me fiercely and would have adored her grandkids beyond measure. I started sharing stories the minute I thought Mia could grasp them, but I didn’t think much about what would come next.
When Mia was five, I was navigating the murky waters of parenting, and my wise friend Sarah, a seasoned teacher, offered me some of the best advice I’d ever received about discussing tough topics with kids. She said that if they ask questions, you should answer honestly, but avoid overwhelming them with information before they’re ready. Whoops.
Around the age of three, Mia casually remarked, “Your mom is dead!” while we were in line at the grocery store. I nodded, trying to keep my cool. But then she asked, “But where is she?” I fumbled for words, trying to explain the different beliefs surrounding death—those who hold onto the idea of heaven (like my in-laws) and those who don’t quite buy it (me). I attempted to convey that my mom believed in the natural world, and if she looked closely, she could find bits of her in the trees and sunlight. This was just the beginning of many deep conversations.
In my eagerness to share my mom’s legacy with Mia, I inadvertently sparked her fascination with the concept of death. “Your mom is never coming back, and you can’t hear her voice,” she declared confidently in the car one day. To the UPS driver, she announced, “My grandma is dead!”
Despite the ongoing chatter about death, it wasn’t until she turned five that she posed the big question: “Mom, how did your mom die?” As we drove home from school, I took a deep breath. “Her body got very sick,” I replied. “Not like when you get a cold. It’s a different kind of sick that mostly happens to grown-ups when they’re very old.” My mind raced, bombarded by images of Instagram posts showcasing children battling cancer, hashtags like #prayersforEmily and #Sophiesfight swirling in my thoughts.
“Because she got sick, her body stopped working,” I continued, hoping for the best. “But am I going to die?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Everything has a beginning, middle, and end,” I replied gently. “Including our lives. But you’re just at the beginning. The end won’t come for a long, long time.”
She sat quietly, digesting my words. Then, out of nowhere, she asked, “Mom? Can I roll down my window?”
I want my kids to know everything there is to know about their grandmother, but I also want them to understand that my fate isn’t sealed like hers. I can’t promise them that I’ll be around forever. All I can do is navigate these conversations as honestly as possible and provide comfort when they need it. In the meantime, I strive to create joyful memories they’ll cherish. I might scream a little too loudly when they leap on the couch, surprise them with Shopkins toys despite their questionable messages, or take rainy-day walks in Los Angeles, splashing in puddles until we’re soaked through.
We exist, and that’s the best we can do while we’re here.
If you’re also navigating the journey of motherhood or considering alternative paths like at-home insemination, check out Make A Mom for resources, including their unique re-usable options. You can find a supportive community in their free sperm donor matching group. Curious about the process? Visit How It Works to learn more about at-home insemination. For those ready to dive into the details, consider the Cryobaby at-home insemination kit or the Impregnator kit. For further reading, Healthline offers an excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, parenting without your own mom can be a challenging but rewarding journey. It’s about finding balance—sharing memories, answering tough questions, and making lasting memories with your children, all while navigating the uncertainties of life.
Leave a Reply