Jeffrey's parents are in town for the holidays. It's been nice. You know how nothing unites like a common enemy? Well, I've discovered, it's the same with a common target of affection. I love how much they love Abbott. Plus, I get a ton done while they're here.
They read the paper every day, cover to cover. But the industry being what it is, those papers are getting thin. So the other day I thought I would point out the other reading materials in the house, including the magazine that I edit. That's not as glamorous as it sounds, but it does have my picture in it, and that's the kind of thing parents like, you know? So I thought about showing them. But as I went to do it, my throat caught. What was I doing? That's not my mom. She's gone. That night, when I told Jeffrey about it, I just cried and cried.
This happens to me every year, some epiphany that I miss my mom. It usually starts out with inexplicable heightened emotion (last week I cried along to 3 songs, including one by Whitney Houston. Whitney. Houston.). Then it keeps building and building until it reveals itself forcefully. Always with tears.
But why does it always come as a surprise? I have what is usually a pretty good memory. It's like with the Indian restaurant down the street. They serve water in these metal cups that keep it really cold and free of errant flavors. And every time I go there I think to myself, hey, these cups are awesome. You know what? We really should get some for our house. And then I say that, and someone always says, we have this conversation every single time. But to me, it's new every time. It's like I'm the HM of freaking metal cups and missing my mom.
Every year, after I figure it out, I start to feel better. And I finally did tell Jeffrey's parents about the mags in the house. Jeffrey was in the room at the time and pointed out the one I edit. I was OK with that; a friend had told me the perfect thing the night before:
They don't have to be your parents to be proud of you.