Mom's Memory Lives On
By Taprina Milburn, Tecumseh Countywide News

I walked into the living room the other day and found my oldest looking at a picture of my mom.
“I miss her,” my daughter said with tears running down her cheeks.
How do you miss someone you never met?
My mom died when she was 22 years old, mother of three. I was the oldest, just barely four.
I have very clear memories of my mom, despite how young I was when she died.
As I age, it’s not the creeping wrinkles that bother me as much as what aging does to my memories – I don’t want those I have of my mother to fade.
So I try to keep them alive by telling my kids what I remember.
I remember making brownies with her and snow angels. She encouraged independence and allowed messes – I remember filling the kitchen sink with sudsy water to help with the dishes, and before I knew it the sink was overflowing. I’m sure she was frustrated, but what I remember is getting to start over.
She also encouraged play and was carefree – something I need to remember to be at times. Once I had a tug-of-war game with our dog, Tim. Tim let go of the towel, or whatever we were tugging, and I fell into a wall. She bandaged and comforted me.
Like all normal moms, she scolded me. There was the time I sat under the dining room table and cut a big hunk of hair from my bangs. I remember a not-so-happy mom.
And there you have it. That’s really it.
How do you miss someone you have only a few memories of and knew for barely four years?
Terribly.
Mothering is getting tougher for me these days – it’s no longer about making mud pies in the backyard or playing dress up. We’re moving into the area of hormones, hurt feelings and “He’s doing it, why can’t I?”
The other day my youngest told me I wasn’t a very good mother. I wanted to scream at him “Well how can I be? I didn’t have one.”
But that’s a cop out; it’s not true. I did have a mother. And within that little capsule of time, everything she taught me and gave me is enough to make ma a good mom.
I know it’s important to let your kids start over when they’ve mad a mistake. My son apologized. We moved on. I’m once again the best mom in the world.
I’m learning to encourage more independence – this is hard for me – my babies aren’t babies anymore. They have their own ideas and dreams. They’re ready for freedom and responsibility.
And I’m trying to be more carefree and playful like my mom, which was easier with preschoolers than it is with easily embarrassed pre-teens.
We planted a blue spruce in our front yard a couple of years ago.
It’s named after my mom, Darlis.
It’s been slow-growing, a little scrawny, and at times I’ve worried about whether or not I was keeping it alive. As I drove up in the driveway this morning after taking the kids to school, I noticed a lot of new growth on it.
It’s alive. Just like my mother’s brief, but significant influence.