Why I Don’t Correct People When They Assume My Mom Is Alive

Nobody wants to be a member of “The Dead Parent Society,” even though we all know deep down that our membership to the club is inevitable. Some of us just join much sooner than we expected. And as years go by, the hurt gets different, and the grief gets different, and the sadness gets different. Not better, just different.

As a member, I’ve become much more aware of the things I assume about other people. I don’t assume people have both parents, I am careful to word my questions about their family in a way that lets them tell me what they want me to know. I’ve learned to be aware because I know what it feels like to hear “I bet your mom loves those boys!” and have that heart-wrenching moment when I wish more than anything that she knew these boys.  I notice the confused look I get when I mention that Sawyer’s middle name is after her and they don’t get why I’d name my son after my not-dead mom.

I don’t correct them because I don’t want to make it weird. We’ve all done it, said a “yo mama” joke to someone without a mom, made a dad reference to someone who just lost their dad. It’s embarrassing and awkward and weird. And I just don’t want to make it weird. It can mess up the flow of a good conversation. It’s a mood killer. It’s just not a fun thing to say, or talk about. And honestly, I’m just not good at saying it. Dead. Passed Away. Chilln’ With Jesus. Departed. I don’t know the “right” way to say it, so I just avoid it altogether. It’s ugly to hear and even uglier to say. So I just don’t.

I also just don’t want the sad. I’ve done the sad. I do the sad on Mother’s Day and her birthday and when I need to call her and cry and I can’t. I do the sad when I want to tell her about major milestones or ask her questions that you’re supposed to ask your mom. I can do sad just fine on my own, I don’t need help. I’ve been a member of this God-awful club for almost four years now, and although most days are happy, there are moments that are heartbreakingly hard. I’m all too familiar with the sadness in their eyes, the pity, the lack of words to make anything better. I don’t want them to be sad for me. I don’t want them to think of me as the girl without a mom. Because I am a lot of things, but I’m not a girl with no mom.

I have a mom. I had a mom. I have a great mom. She was beautiful and flawed and meticulous and an incredible listener and a drinker and emotional and a neat freak and loved us more than she loved herself. She was a fighter and a runner and fixer and an expert at making sweet tea. She taught me hard lessons, sometimes in ways that I hated, but always in ways that I learned. She was honest, she believed in me and she was so proud of me. She made me feel confident and pissed off and loved and annoyed and fearless. She worked hard, she wanted us to work hard, and for the six precious weeks she had, she was a grandma. I learned a lot from her, and her being gone doesn’t erase any of that. I am thankful for her, and a lot of who I am is because, and sometimes in spite of, her. And if we had to do it over, I’d take her crazy love and strength and lose her early then change anything about her and have her here. She was confident in herself, in her OCD, bra-avoiding, barefoot, country music loving self. And although I miss her, what she did and who she was can never be undone.

I don’t correct people when they assume my mom is alive because in that brief moment, to them, I’ve yet to earn my membership card. When I do the fake laugh and change the topic, I’m just a girl with a mom who’s still here, and it feels good, even for a second.