I miss my mom. I know I will literally see her three days after this article is posted, but I don’t miss her in that way.
Sure, I miss her cooking when I’m eating the same few meals because I can’t figure out how to cook new things. But I get her cooking the four or so months out of the year I’m home.
I miss her in the small ways. The ways I’ll never get back.
The car rides to school every morning because she worked in the front office.
Sitting in the office during my off periods, senior year of high school, just to hang out.
Her taking that job so she didn’t have to work Saturdays at the hair salon, so she could see our cross-country races.
Going to work at the salon with her and hanging out all day just so I could hope to get my hair done.
I miss lying in her bed when she was reading before I went to my room, even though she’d give me grief for my room not being clean or something.
I miss her being at my lacrosse games, which were below freezing, and watching her sit in the car, but knowing she was there. (I knew she was telepathically yelling at me to run faster to pick up the ball)
I miss my person, I guess. The one who knew I was having a bad day the second I pulled into the driveway. The one who, when I got broken up with, drank with me that night, then woke me up the next morning and walked 3 miles with me to clear my head. I miss when it was just the two of us at home, and it was silent but full. The fact that we never had to say a word, sitting on opposite ends of the couch reading, but her presence was enough.
The weird thing is, I don’t miss when they happened. I don’t miss being a kid. I don’t miss high school. I just miss the part where she was there. The part where she walked into my room just to see what I was doing, then walked away.
I know she’s proud of what I’m doing in college; she’s even said so (which, if you know her, affection is not her strong suit). I know she’s proud of the hyper-independent person I am, even if I’m exactly like her and won’t ask for help. But the independent person she raised me to be misses random hugs sometimes. The unscheduled ones.
Sometimes the things I want to tell my mom, the things that I would randomly barge into her room for, feel too small for text or too unimportant for a phone call. I just have to wait until the next time I see her and hope I remember the million things that I really wanted to tell my mom.
Most days, I’m okay with the occasional phone call. Some days, though, I get slapped in the face with the fact I just really want my mom.