“Why did Nanna have to die?” she asked, totally out of the blue, causing me to grab the nearest, and probably most expensive, pack.

“She had a disease called cancer. Sometimes people get better, but Nanna was too poorly and she died” I replied, never quite knowing how little or how much to say.

“I wish I could have met Nanna, Mummy” she said looking up at me with her sad eyes, squeezing my hand. Looking at her, right there, in the toilet roll aisle I felt a new wave of grief as I saw myself 24 years ago, two years older, looking up and hearing the news that my Mummy had died.

(just for the record I didn’t break down in the supermarket)

Later, that evening, she announced that there weren’t enough pictures of Nanna in our house. I agreed and decided to fill another frame, for the living room, with a picture of my Mum. The 7 year old commandeered it “Can I have that in my room?” she said tracing my Mum’s face with her finger.

I gave her the framed photo and she took it upstairs.  Later at bedtime, when I went to say goodnight, I found her sat looking at the picture. I reached for the photo, to put it on the windowsill but she held on firmly.

“I wish she was here” she said putting the picture under her pillow.

I never thought the ripple would reach that far. That she would be missed by the granddaughter, who never knew her but keeps her close while she sleeps.

Why she couldn’t just have the subject as ‘dog’, ‘child’ or ‘holiday snap’ I don’t know.

So, I spent FOREVER going through pictures only to find pictures of my children, our wedding and/or our dog which I decided were boring.

So I slept on it and the following morning dug these out and found some pictures I am very proud of.

Three pictures of a mother and child.  My mother.  I am the child.  I only had my Mum for nine years. I have difficulty with memories during those years.

Luckily I have photos, quite a few in fact. I don’t just look at the photos, I pore over them  I wonder what she was thinking, doing, wearing … just any glimpse of anything that makes me feel a bit closer to her.

Now that I am a mother they mean even more to me.

I think the would have been proud of me, as I am of her.

One of my favourite presents was a pillowcase … I kid you not. It looks like this and is made from Egyptian cotton (The Husband may have been lying about that bit).  Take a look at the rest of the website, it’s tres funky and funny too.

Obviously I am thinking about my Mum today too.  This year feels a bit different though.  Instead of feeling sad and blue, today I feel happy when I think about her.  Maybe it’s a turning point.  I hope so.  I was interviewed for an article in Company magazine (remember the smizing post?) for my other blog, you can read about it here. Thanks to all of you who have already been over and commented, it means a lot.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you lovely Mums!

I have boxes and albums stuffed with photos. I often look through them and it can trigger memories of an event but not of the interaction we shared, normal everyday moments shared between a mother and child. The kind of moments I share with my children that I know I shared with her but have no recollection of. A goodnight kiss, snuggling up for a bedtime story, holding hands as we walk down the street … all gone in the dust of death.

I have only two very different memories that have stayed.

Memory 1
We were at a neighbour’s house. I was playing with my friends; the adults were all chatting and laughing in the living room. It must have been a party of sorts because there were a lot of people there. We were running up and down the stairs, racing round the house. It was late, I was tired and hot and I went to my mum for a cuddle. She sat me on her knee; she lifted my long hair up and blew cold air on my neck to cool me down, breaking off to laugh with her friends. We sat like that for a long time, together. It is a tender moment that I treasure.

Memory 2
Driving somewhere, just the two of us, Mum and me. I was sat in the backseat. I had a plastic toy gun which made a click noise when the trigger was pulled. Cheap plastic against cheap plastic; Click, Click, Click. I realised that this noise, although not annoying to me, was grating to my mum. I evidently clicked one too many times because I was told in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t stop it would be going out of the car window. I must have weighed up the seriousness of her threat before … CLICK. Without saying a word, and still driving, she removed the gun from my hand, wound down the window and threw it, wound up her window and continued on our journey as if nothing had happened.

I have a lot of memories of my father’s parenting which was fairly laid back unless I crossed the line in which case I knew about it.

I often think about the way I parent my own children. On a bad day I am a ‘show no mercy’ gun slinger and on a good day I am a laid back tender neck blower.

I need to learn how to be a mixture of gun slinger and laid back tender neck blower all the time!