The ‘Mom Moments’ That Stay With You After Losing Your Mother

After looking up a recipe for braised short ribs, I realized I was missing a key tool: A Dutch oven. So, I got into the car and headed out into a late Sunday morning rainstorm, determined to find one.

As I stood in the appliance aisle of a local store, debating which Dutch oven to buy, I heard her. “You’re being ridiculous. You don’t need a Dutch oven for this recipe.”

I whipped my head around, ready to argue. The recipe clearly called for a Dutch oven, and she knew my lack of cooking skills meant I had to follow every direction exactly. So yes, I do, in fact, need a Dutch oven, Mom, if I’m going to make the best braised short ribs in this history of braised short ribs.

And then it hit me – she wasn’t there.

I immediately felt the sting of tears beginning to well in my eyes, and before I knew it, they were falling uncontrollably. Right there, in the middle of aisle 12.

I needed to hear my mother’s voice

With blurry vision and eyes I could feel swelling quickly (because that’s what happens at my age), I continued my search despite the brand names and prices appearing as nothing more than indistinct letters and shapes. I vaguely remember a couple of strangers looking as if they wanted to ask if I was okay before choosing to take the next aisle, and I can’t say I blamed them.

But I needed this, more than I knew. I needed to hear her voice telling me I was being ridiculous, that the recipe would turn out just fine in a crockpot. I needed the reminder of her infinite wisdom at this moment.

A mom moment.

Our loved ones still find a way of reaching us even after they are gone

It wasn’t the first, and if you’ve lost your mother or someone dear to you, chances are you probably know exactly what I mean. Those delicate moments when they still find a way to mother and to love us, from wherever they are.

Maybe for you, it’s waking from a dream where you pick up the phone, and they’re calling to check in and tell you how wonderful it is where they are. Maybe it’s standing outside like a total weather nerd the exact minute the first cool front of the season blows in, and you feel their presence right next to you. Maybe it’s swimming laps in early mornings just before dawn, and when your set is over, you float on your back, staring at the stars, and whisper, “Good morning, mama.

”But more than likely, it’s a thousand other things: treasured memories or traditions the two of you shared, or, like me, hearing their voice give you advice in the middle of a store on a rainy Sunday.

The veil between here and there is thin

Whatever you call it, one thing is certain, the instinct to comfort and love doesn’t disappear. Even death is unable to stop it, as the veil between here and there is so incredibly thin. From the moment they first feel us kick to the moment they hold us for the very first time or the moment the phone rings telling them their baby is here, this unyielding love is unlike any other. As a woman, I believe this kind of transcendent love is one of the greatest gifts we carry and share with others.

Some time back, two of my childhood friends lost their mothers within a short time period. As I listened to their grief through texts and phone calls, I wanted so badly to comfort them with what I’ve come to understand in the five years my mother has been gone. I wanted to tell them about the “mom moments” just ahead of them and how precious they’ll be. But I also understood that words, although kind and sincere, could do nothing to take away the pain they were in.

If you open your heart you may hear your loved one

So, as cliché as it sounds, I said, what I knew they would learn in time. “Open your heart and listen. She’ll be there. I promise.” Back in the store, I dug through my bag for a tissue, trying to collect myself and continue my search for the perfect Dutch oven.

Then, I felt someone gently touch my arm. I looked up to see an older woman with a face full of concern. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Oh – yes, ”I said.“ I’m okay. I just miss my mom.”

She smiled softly, not needing further explanation. “Ah,” she said. “I understand. I miss my mom, too.” Then she squeezed my forearm, gave me a small smile and a wink, and walked away. And in that moment, I could hear my mother’s voice again, only this time she was telling me to“ pull myself together.” So I did.

Grief never fully disappears, but it transforms

I walked back out into the rain, toward my car without the Dutch oven. And I thought again of my friends. How do you explain that the grief never fully disappears, but it transforms? That one day, they’ll wake up to find that the soul-encompassing sadness will be replaced with smiles and laughter of days gone by.

That one day, they won’t feel rooted in their grief but find themselves moving through it, one step at a time and one day the steps would not feel so heavy.

I still need those mom moments

That one day, if they’re lucky, they’ll be standing in a store, debating whether or not to buy something like a Dutch oven or a pair of expensive high heels, and they’ll hear their mom telling them they don’t need it, a crock pot will work fine (but go ahead and buy the shoes!).

And maybe – just maybe – they’ll smile and agree.

You were right, Mom. I didn’t need it. But sometimes, even after all these years, I still need those mom moments. Oh, and the number for take-out, not because of a lack of a Dutch oven but because, well, you’ve had my cooking.

More Great Reading:

Even Though My Mother Is Gone, I Am Not Motherless