It's snowing - Things I wish I could tell Mom

As I drove home from the store this afternoon, the predicted rain began. However, within two minutes of pulling into the garage, the rain turned to snow. Huge, thick, fluffy flakes, unlikely to stick for long because of the temperature. 

My first thought as I looked outside was, "I'll text Mom to see if it's snowing at their house." Less than two heartbeats later I remembered that I can't. Yes, there are other people I could text and share the joy of snow falling in the desert, but I wanted to tell my mom. 

It's been less than a year since her death and, several times a week, I am caught slightly off-guard by the blow that I cannot share my life with my mom anymore. When we send belly picture updates, she is not on the group list. When we safely land after reaching our destination, there is less of a hurry to update family members because I know that she is not wondering in the back of her mind if we are okay. After a stressful day at work, I can't call her and vent or ask for advice. As we are about a month away from welcoming our son, she will not be at the hospital, even though she promised to be there. 

At the same time, I know she would have been a mess this pregnancy. Because of the changes in her brain near the end, she'd have been constantly fretting. Every time either my husband or I called her, she would be worried that it was to share the horrible news that something happened to our son. Sometimes I can see the grace that she is not here battling constant fear, and I still miss her. 

Each time someone complains about their mom, shares a funny story, or talks about going over to their parents' house, part of me aches. Aches with the knowledge that I will never have new stories to tell about my mom. Aches that the days of taking family for granted are forever changed. Aches that we will never travel again together, share snowstorms, births, coffee, or the minute details that make up a life. 

Part of me is jealous when I hear grandmothers talk about their daughters and in utero or already born grandchildren. It's a dual jealousy - these daughters still have their mothers to walk beside them through pregnancy and these families talk about grandchildren with the unbridled excitement of those who have never buried an infant. 

I miss Mom and today I would ask her if it's snowing at their house.