Of Mothers and Heartache

This is a photo of Josh's mama. It's such a perfect photograph. Mom in the center, flanked by her two girls, surrounded by her grandbabies on every side, sitting there, radiating happiness as the perfect nucleus of the generations of Recaido women.

And it breaks my heart. Selfishly, when I look at this picture, what I see is the fact that my own babies will never get the chance to sit upon their Tutu's lap or climb up on her shoulders. I love this picture, but when I look at it, I am angry. I am angry that my mother-in-love passed away too soon. I am angry that she wasn't physically at our wedding (though I know she was there) and I am angry that we cannot send her flowers on mother's day, that all of her birthdays are now spent without her, that every celebration we have as a family will have an empty space that only she could fill. And I am angry, so angry, that I never got the chance to speak with her about how Josh was when he was a baby and what her pregnancy, labor, and delivery experiences were. I am robbed of the chance to seek her advice, to gain her wisdom, to know her guidance. Never will she come and fill my home with the sound of her laughter, staying too long in our guest room, cooking us dinners, and rocking our babies to sleep. Never. And it's not fair. I don't get the chance to introduce Kamuela to the woman who raised his incredible father and I cannot bring myself to be okay with that. So much of who Josh is comes from his mother and I want so badly for my son to learn those same things from her.

But he can't. Knowing his Tutu is the one thing in the whole world that I will never be able to give my son. And as today marks the third anniversary of Mom's passing from here into eternity and as I am only days away from giving birth to her first grandson... the hurt in my heart is so big and heavy that I'm not sure where to put it.


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