My mom’s love for mothering started when she was a little girl playing mom-in-training to her dolls. They were an interesting bunch… Most notably, she had a small tan doll with a thick bowl haircut that wore red pants and a sock she had fashioned into a shirt, a large stuffed raccoon named Rocky, and a baby doll. All of which she kept all these years and are tucked away in our basement somewhere. They were her little “family” and she practiced taking care of them. Back in 2016, I made my mom a book for mother’s day that was full of notes written to her from our family, each sharing what they admire about her passion for being a mother. When my mom got sick, we would read the book to her and look at all the photos on the pages. I always loved the note that my mom’s parents, my nana and grandpa, had written. They have both since passed, but the note read, “Jackie, in addition to being a fabulous daughter, has always been a “super mom”, first to her dolls, next to her siblings as each came along, and finally to four of her own children. She nurtured, guided, and most importantly loved each for themselves. She let them grow into who they are, each different but yet all alike in their values, actions, and respect for life and others. What a fantastic job!”.

She passed her love of dolls and fun of make-believe to my sister & I. This set the stage for a long-lasting phenomenon in our house: American Girl Dolls. Much to my dad’s dismay, they slowly took over every Christmas and birthday. We were FULLY spoiled, but I think it brought my mom so much joy to see us enjoy them just as much as she had growing up. Last fall, I went down to our storage room and was looking through the boxes where she had stored all of my sister and I’s old American Girl Dolls and accessories. Every single teeny tiny accessory was carefully wrapped and cataloged into separate Ziplock Bags by category (ex: “Summer Accessories”, “Sportswear”, “Snow Gear”). It was a mix of laughs, as I thought about how long this must have taken her, and then tears, as I wondered if by some miracle she might still be here to play with these again when I have a family of my own.

When she was expecting my oldest brother, she would be the first to tell you that she was stepping into her greatest role yet. She loved being a mom. And I’m sure it didn’t always feel this way in her mind, but it was the most natural thing in the world for her. I have my own memories of course, but I love to watch her in our old home movies from the early days. Her voice was so beautiful. The tone she consistently maintained with us was incredible. It was the most gentle, soothing, and loving affect that just poured out of her. She never yelled. I’m not kidding, I don’t remember my mom ever raising her voice at us. If we did something wrong, she would calmly explain to us why our behavior was not right and how it would make other people feel. I credit so much of our family dynamic, how close we are and how much we genuinely love spending time together, to how she taught us to interact with one another.

I have a very clear memory of being little and her tucking me into bed at night. I was truly the most anxious child (sorry mom) and could never fall asleep. Every single night I would ask her to tell me a story, an obvious attempt in trying to stall turning off the lights and going to bed. And God bless her because she always did, no matter how tired she was. She was the BEST storyteller. She would go into so much detail and really build the characters up so that it felt like you knew them too. Not surprisingly for my mom, usually the stories would shift into her going on & on about how much she loved me. And I remember a few times where she would look at me with tears in her eyes saying how much she always wanted me, how much she always wanted to be a mom. I realize now how special it is to never doubt being loved for one second of your life. But in my six year old mind I thought, “Ok mom stop crying, this is weird”.

On top of her being the best storyteller, she wrote my siblings and I napkin notes in our lunches every single day (yes, even through high school). Sometimes, she even wrote them for our friends at the lunch table. And they were always so thoughtful, centered around whatever we had going on in our lives at the time. I had the sense of self to save some of them throughout the years, which I am eternally grateful for now. I’ve had one in particular hanging in my apartment for the past two years. She had written it to me on my birthday. On it she wrote, “No one else will ever know how much I love you, not even you, at least not until you will be a mother yourself!”. And maybe it’s because I’m a little older now but when I look back to our bedtime stories and the napkins notes… I get it. Well, I don’t fully get it, but I know that I will when I have a family of my own.

When she got sick, the role reversal between her & I happened slowly. It was a gradual, unspoken, bridging of the gap between what she needed from me and what I still needed from her. It was almost inconceivable until one day it smacked me right in the face. I couldn’t tell you how or when it happened, it just did. I still loved my mom just as much, if not more, than I always had, but it had become different. There was a protectiveness to it that hadn’t been there before. In reflecting back on how the role reversal developed, I have to believe that some of how I was functioning was through being able to compartmentalize. Which to be honest, I’m not very good at doing in almost all other areas of my life. But a lot of the experience of her being sick and the caregiver dynamic I stepped into was compartmentalizing. Early on, my best friend’s mom gave me a tip she had learned while taking care of her father. She told me that it becomes necessary to separate the version of your parent that you know from the disease. I think if you’re able to do that, it unlocks a whole new level of empathy as a caregiver.

I want to preface what I say next with the sentiment that being a caregiver is certainly not a gender exclusive role. In no way, shape, or form do I discredit the role of male caregivers. With that, I do want to highlight the unique experiences of female caregivers. In my experience, women, specifically daughters, oftentimes have an innate caregiving ability. It comes to us without even having to think about it most of the time. It’s a beautiful thing, even if it feels expected at times. I think women step into the caregiver role, or are assumed of these roles, for a couple different reasons. Some of it is most definitely gender roles, being taught from a young age to always be nurturing, helpful, and focused on other people’s feelings. Some of it is stereotyping against not only women, but men too- assuming that men are less naturally caring or less skilled at handling emotional tasks. Some of it may be family pressure with women and daughters feeling a strong sense of moral obligation to look after our family. Whatever it is, my heart is always with all caregivers, but especially the daughters. My hope is that they feel supported, valued, and protected. As my mom always said, “Us girls have to stick together!”. And she’s right!

Despite the role reversal, it was still important to me to create moments where my mom still felt like she was mothering, because she was. I would make up scenarios in which I would ask her if I could borrow something from her closet (she still always said yes of course) or ask her if I should take Advil or Tylenol for a headache. Realistically, I knew she wasn’t able to fully comprehend these conversations, but I like to think they were good for her spirit and sense of self. There was one day last summer where I was really struggling with a hard decision I had to make. I remember feeling like, “I just wish I could talk to my mom about this”. And so I did. We sat outside on our porch and I told her everything. Some good ole gossip… we’ve always been good at that. I can remember the exact look on her face as I spoke. I could see the flashes of concern in her eyes, seeing the anxiety in mine. I tried to never cry in front of her because I didn’t want to scare her, but I couldn’t help myself that day. It wasn’t over the silly situation I was dealing with, but for the pain I felt watching her. I could see how hard she was trying to be present- her brain struggling to work over time to be there with me in the conversation. It broke my heart. When I finished my sob story, I remember asking her, “What do you think I should do?”. At this point, it was more of a rhetorical question for myself, even though I had become pretty efficient in interpreting her responses. She couldn’t quite say it fully, but she put a shaky hand on my leg and told me that although it’s hard now, it will be ok and to just be kind. Simple words from a mother to a daughter that somehow solved everything… just like that.

I look back now and can clearly recognize that my mom had unknowingly been preparing me for my greatest role yet- getting to be one of her caregivers. She had been teaching me by example my whole life on how to take care of her. She had shown me how to love someone unconditionally, how to put others’ needs before your own, how to sacrifice for your family, and how to have deep empathy for those around you. I even found myself speaking differently with her. My tone of voice had slowly shifted to be much softer, warmer, more gentle, almost sing-songey. When I listen back to our old home videos, I immediately know where that comes from. I like this version of myself that I am now and it’s because I got to take care of her. I smile now when I think about that because it’s so true to how she always was- to somehow, even now, still be helping me be better. 

When she passed, all of the grief & saddness was mixed up into an insurmountable mess. It’s a mess of missing the mom I had grown up knowing, mixed up with the more fragile version of her that I had loved most recently. It wasn’t until we were putting together the photo boards for her funeral that I was able to comprehend the dual-grief I was experiencing. I kept finding myself having a really hard time looking at recent photos of her without breaking down. As a daughter, I lost my protector, my center of gravity, the person who gave me life and then spent hers pouring into me. But then as a caregiver, I lost the person I felt l needed to protect, my buddy that had been with me through this, the person that I had spent the last six years nurturing and taking care of. 

If there’s one thing I know for certain above all else, no matter how old I get, I will always still need my mom. Which is why every life change, both big and small, brings a new wave of grieving. New apartments, new jobs, new friends, new milestones. She won’t know these versions of me and that is incredibly painful. But then again, I don’t think that even something as final as death can ever erase the bond between a mother and her child. So thank you mom, for giving me the gift of knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that a mother’s love knows no bounds of space or time.