Write me a book

I used to keep a blog. (I wouldn't say I was good at it.) It is sadly lost forever now. In it, I chronicled my life from January 2007 until June 2008, mostly for an audience of one: my mother. During that time I spent seven months in Argentina, met my husband, brought him to the US, and married him. It was also during that time that my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She died in March 2010.

(Here I pause, because almost three years later, that sentence still brings surprisingly ready tears to my eyes.)

We had the blessing of spending lots of time with her those last few years. She would come stay with us for a month at a time and we loved sharing our newlywed life with her. When we drove her back and forth from PA she would stay awake with me and tell me her stories. Stories I'd never heard before. Stories that my forgetful mind has since wiped away, leaving only the warm memory of those precious times. I cherished finding my mom in story mode and hearing beautiful nuggets about her life, my childhood, and her dreams. Her nostalgic happiness was so beautiful.

My mom was a great baby-lover and as a foster mom took care of dozens of other people's babies. She was my go-to expert when I had struggles in my baby-sitting jobs. She knew everything and always had the best advice.

When my mom first told me her cancer had metastasized in August 2007, I looked at Roman (we had just started dating) with a huge lump in my throat and told him that I needed to get married and have babies immediately. (No pressure, new boyfriend.) The hardest part of her dying was knowing that I would maybe one day become a mom without her help. It seemed impossible to reconcile and it was what made me most angry at death and most jealous of my siblings. After all, some of their children were teenagers. Their children had had a grandmother. They lived with her. They knew her. They fought with her. They loved her. My children were still stars in the sky.

As we grew nearer to the reality of her death, I got bold. I started begging. Mom, write me a book. You have to write down everything you know about raising a child. I need your advice. Please write it down. Anything, something. I need all that is in your head down on paper to help me through it. Please do it. Write me a book.

It was selfish of me. Childish. She was too sick. Too tired. Too in her own moment of her own reflections at the end of her own life.

Through my pregnancy I thought of my mom a lot. I despaired again about having a baby without her help. But all of a sudden just now I remembered what her response was of my request: You'll know what to do. You'll be a good mom. You won't need a book. Love your baby.

I have a terrible memory. My sister is constantly telling me stories about growing up that I just can't remember. I want to live my life so richly that I have too many wonderful memories to keep stored away. I want to savor every moment of my life, but I'm afraid I'll have no stories to tell at the end. So maybe if I am faithful to this blog, maybe one day I'll again have an audience of one. The one I'm watching sleep in my arms as I type this.

Mom, write me a book.

This is page one.