We’ve been watching Life, the behemoth new documentary series about animals, and we just saw the “Mammals” episode. There’s a section where a baby elephant gets stuck in a watering hole and her young, inexperienced mother tries to get her out. Things keep getting worse until finally the grandmother comes over, pushes the mother out of the way, and lets the baby get out on her own (the mother was actually impeding the baby’s escape). The kids thought this was fantastic:
Them: “Did the grandma save her?”
Me, trying not to cry: “Yeah, the grandma saved her. The grandma knew just what to do.”
I’ve been having what seems like a sudden increase in the number of reminders that I don’t have a mother anymore. Don’t have a “grandma” to save us. The best was at Elfie’s ballet class when the other moms were talking about their own grandmothers’ 90-ish birthday celebrations. I sat there listening, thinking how strange it was that they just assumed everyone had a living, breathing mother to travel with to the birthday of their 90-year-old grandmother. And how a year ago, I would’ve thought the same thing (minus the grandmother — Tenzin’s grandma is our last holdout and mine are all dead).
I’ve heard the theory that all children should have at least one person who lights up when they walk into the room. Someone who thinks they are the most special person in the world. I certainly can’t say that by my late 30’s, my mother was lighting up every time I came into a room. But when I was a child, she somehow conveyed to me the idea that I was indeed special. That I was, in some way, not ordinary. And I think I’ve carried that deep inside me, like a little treasure chest.
So what happens when that one lit-up person is no longer around? Well, part of the magic kind of goes away. I’ve had a feeling lately that’s best described as this — the sudden sensation of being an ant in the middle of a huge, overcrowded anthill. In other words, it’s finally dawned on me that I’m not that special. Things are not just going to happen because I’m “me.”
Now, whether I am indeed special or not is up for debate (everyone is unique, has a purpose, yada yada), but the end result is still that my confidence is somewhat shaken. This is clearly why when people who do not have the help of anyone else do manage to succeed, they go completely over the top. I’m sure finding that spark to light yourself up on your own is really friggin’ hard.
But when you do grow up with that person, old habits die hard. Even though Tenzin told me what a great job I’d done getting Easter pulled together this year, I kept waiting for my mom to come walking through the door that morning. Mostly because the day just wasn’t complete without her. But partly because I wanted her to be the one to tell me I’d done it right. That I’d gotten all the right toys and candy and food even though I didn’t have a chance to talk with her about it. That even without the grandma, I’d known just what to do.
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.