The Firsts

Cross post from The Sandwich Chronicles.

The Little Things

What I am discovering with my mom's death, is it's not so much the big things that are getting me, it's the little things. The little things stab me in the heart.

My mom's favorite Christmas carol was "Silent Night." I made it as far as "holy night" and then bolted for the coatroom at mass Christmas Eve.

For as long as I can remember, on Christmas Day everything stopped for the Queen's Christmas message. We all sat around the television until the Queen had finished speaking, and then Christmas Day continued as before. This year, I spoke with mom's best friend mid-morning Christmas morning, and she mentioned she had just listened to the Queen's message. When I listened to it later, I broke down. For the first time in my life, I watched it alone.

My mom was a staunch monarchist, and was particularly fond and protective of Prince William. She would have been thrilled to hear there was a baby coming. It was hard not to pick up the phone and talk to her about it.

Hilary Clinton stepped down and John Kerry took over as Secretary of State. That would have merited several long discussions about it. I am a third generation political junkie and one of the last things mom and I did together was watch the US election returns in her room at the nursing home.

The Pope resigned. That would have merited several more long discussions.

I found a perfect dress for my daughter's first Communion at an upscale second hand store. It was new with tags, simple, appropriate and $15. Mom would have been thrilled, all the more so since my daughter loved it on sight.

And the Blue Jays are starting spring training. With the team they have put together and my mom cheering them from heaven, if they don't win the World Series this year, something is seriously wrong.

And when the Dairy Queen opens again next month, there will not be a rite of spring ice cream with mom for the first time in my life.

I miss mom a million ways a day, whether it's finding her handwriting on a note in a box, looking at old pictures or hearing her voice in my daughter's teddy bear message that she recorded. I can handle the big things. The little things hurt.