July 3, 2025

July 3, 2025

Happy Birthmonth, Mom.

Yesterday I wrote this in my mind all day. All day I thought about the number 3, and about how that fit in with my life, your life; the life of you, my sister, and us all together.

Three is a weird little duck of a number. It is the last of the first prime numbers (assuming we count 1 as a prime...). In geography, it is the lowest number of non-curved (straight) sides a two dimensional figure can have. In construction, a three point attachment is almost golden, demanded for its stability.

Triangles are used to hold up roofs in the vast majority of times, even when the roof is flat. Just look at the zigzag pattern in the cross supports.

So, three, then. Most of our time here together, I had three dogs. First after Guinnan died, whom you took a disliking to. Poor girl, you never seemed to see how needy and truly sweet hearted she was.

Then when we adopted Pippi and Ricky. I was so glad you decided we should get Ricky. He needed so much love.

I used to make up description riddles for them:

I have two female dogs
Two border collie mixes
Two young dogs
Two that like water

How many dogs....?

Stuff like that.

There were three in our households, at different times while I was in K-12. Mostly you, my sister, me...

Then when Sandy went to college, it was you, Dad, and I.

For the most part. At different times; Sandy came back; and before that, my step-sister lived with us.

But there were us three in Tennessee. Only us two in the house; but the three of us here.

At times, I was concerned about her behavior. Would she come over uninvited and open gates that put the horses, goats, or dogs in danger? Would living farther away prevent that? So many worries. So many stories of the last 13 or so years, the strange and sad escape of the ferrets; the escape of a foster dog. And the evasive way she wouldn't answer some questions. She'd just ignore them. That bothered me.

Did she feel as ignored growing up as I did?

Funny thing, I felt more like I was being watched and surveilled this time around than when I was in high school. I had lived on my absolute own since 2004; not even a spouse, and I had to answer more questions than in high school. Like I was even less competent now.

Sorry.

I know you were mad at me when I called Sandy to let her know you were in the hospital. You never forgave her for shutting us, well, you, out. And I can understand that kind of pain. She was in pain, too. We all are, in our way, I guess.

Some use the pain to bend towards spite & a sense of othering. Some use their pain and develop deeper compassion for all and become more inclusive.

I still don't know the meaning of you telling me to stop telling the nurses "I'm Jone's daughter" when I came in. Was I unintentionally insulting the nurses? Did you feel insulted or embarrassed by me?

The trope in movies like 6th Sense, where the little boy tells his mother the answer to her question to her deceased mother is "yes" and the question is "are you ever proud of me?" I don't even bother to ask.

I am bitter at times. More often than not, even. And broken. I wanted... more, I guess. More than you were able to give. And I didn't know how to reconcile these things in my heart and in my mind.

But I still love you. And I wish you could have felt that better. That I could have helped you heal better from your own abandonments.

I love you Mom.
I miss you.
Happy Birthmonth.