The Eighth, Year Three, 08 April 2013

Today marks year three of Mom's Heavenly homegoing.  I miss her.  Like crazy.  Within just the past few months, I've started dreaming about her on occasion, and we sit together and she hugs me.  It feels so good.

The past two years, as many of us as were available got together to spend the day with each other.  This year, The Eighth came on a Monday, which makes it awkward for out-of-towners to travel around.  So I marked the day in a number of ways.

Yesterday afternoon, G, Z, and I drove to pick up my one-year-old nephew, Baby K, from Claire and Bernie (my sister and bro-in-law), who were badly in need of some adult time.  It was our first time having a slumber party with Baby K, and we had a blast!  It was fun to watch him play with the many Duplos we have, all of which were gifts from my parents.  I enjoyed thinking about how even though my mom isn't here to watch Baby K play, he is still getting to participate in gifts she gave her grandsons.

Early this morning--5:30--I woke up with The Eighth heavy on my heart.  Instead of fitfully trying to sleep longer, I got up and looked at photos of my mom.

This is one of my very favorite pictures of Mom and me.  (You can tell I'm a girl by the ruffles on my shirt.  Hair doesn't run in our family.)  She taught us that the best part of baking was licking the beaters.  Salmonella shmalmonella!

Z got up a little later and cuddled with me under the quilt Mom made for me after Jay and I were married.  She made the same pattern for every single one of us, but we each got to shop with her and pick our own fabrics.  I love the memory of being with Mom at my local fabric store.

Kind of ironic in retrospect that Mom's not in the picture!  From left to right: Claire and Bernie, me and Jay, Carl, Dad, Kay, Essie, and Em.  (Dad's quilt was made from scraps of ours.)

After I fed little boys breakfast and sent G off to school, Claire arrived at our house and she and I jetted out for a pedicure while Z and B.K. played with Grammy G (it's an alphabet soup of names, really).  When we got back, the four of us had lunch together and spent some time outside; Claire and Z played baseball and I sat with B.K. on the grass while he spun wheels on some trucks.

After rests all-round, Claire and B.K. went home and I made dinner.  Mundane, perhaps, but even the simple act of feeding my family is a connection I have with Mom.  She was my first cooking teacher.  (And aside from experience, my only teacher, actually!)

Jay took the kids to play at a park after we ate, and I "puttered," as Mom would say, around the house, doing little chores.  Then, I sat down at the piano.  Mom's piano.  And I played for an hour.  Brahms, Schubert, Bach, Clementi, Chopin--all music Mom taught me to love.  Growing up, I listened to her play the piano; I listened to the records and CDs she put on; my fingers learned to feel keys and follow music under her instruction.  Mom was not my only piano teacher (in truth, I whined too much under her tutelage), but she was my first.  My first piano duets were with her.  The first songs I sang were accompanied by her.

I had hoped to sing/play with her for years to come, but I am so grateful for the memories I have and the lessons she taught me--

Love God, love your husband, love your children, love your family, love your neighbor, love music.

Thank you, Mom, and I love you.  Save me a spot by the piano bench in your Heavenly mansion!