A Mommy Blog About Raising Men, Not Boys.

Sunday, November 08, 2015

Sweater Weather

I've sat down to write this post three times and can't figure out what to say.

Charlie and I are up early, he's an early riser, my Charlie. He comes in and rests his hand on my arm, or my face, and will say "Hi" or "Good Morning". Because Charlie can sometimes get into things he shouldn't so when Charlie is awake, it's prudent to get up too. KEEP CHARLIE SAFE is a mantra around here, which means keeping child locks on doors and keeping those doors closed, and rising when he does.

My SIL sent me several bags of my mom's sweaters and that might seem morbid but actually about 1/3 of them are my sweaters - I had given them to her when I moved south. So those sweaters have just come home. Another 1/3 of them are hilariously Beverly Goldberg.
Dear god Mom what the hell hahahaha. Ok I know for a fact this sweater is from the late 80s or early 90s.

But that last third of sweaters are really very nice. That's the thing about my mom, my mom had flawless taste - even the Beverly Goldberg sweaters were the shit at the TIME. She didn't often indulge in "fashion" so much as style, and I don't feel weird having acquired some of her clothes. She'd say "Why let them go to waste, you can use them for work." In fact she DID say that when she was still alive but I couldn't handle thinking about it. I had taken a few sweaters then, for work. She'd said "Well when I'm dead..." and finished up about how I should take the rest. That idea wasn't able to settle in, but it has now.

When I opened the first bag, I sat on the floor and sobbed, smelling each one and realizing how much they smelled like my mom. It was ugly crying, uncontrollable, snotty, nearly hysterical had you been watching me. A grown woman clutching sweaters and sobbing like a child. Like someone had died.
I wrapped them around me and keened for her like I couldn't imagine having done until that moment.

I waited a couple of days before opening the next one.

The second bag was less traumatic, and sorting was easier. No, that's 80s, No that's a size 28 (damn mom when were you a 28?), no that's just too worn, yes, yes, yes, yes. Things smelled good, but it made me happy not traumatized. I folded and sorted and made a bag for donations. The donations left the house and I didn't feel upset or lost as they left.

It's been a solid three days. That's pretty damn good around here.

I'm going to wear my mom's sweaters (some of which were really mine anyway) and think happy things about her, many of those things are going to be "damn Mom had good taste". She would approve of that.

I wear her wedding ring which she hated, and I rub it like a talisman when I'm sad. I figure that if I can wear this wedding ring that she really never liked (mom wanted a plain gold band not this weird thing Dad picked out) then I can comfortably wear things that she LIKED.

Not like she died in them.

It's rained for days. My yard is a mud bog. It's rainy and horrible and cold is sliding down from the mountains toward me.

It's sweater weather. For the first time in years, I am prepared. Thanks for suggesting it Mom.


Christine G. said...

I happened to be tasked with carrying the bag home with mom's clothes the day she died. I stole the shirt and smelled it for MONTHS before finally washing it after having a dream where she said to me, "For the love of Christ, wash that shirt, Chrissy". I wore it a couple times too to feel close to her (after I washed it).

I still have it.

My watch, that my mom borrowed, smells strongly of her perfume (obessession). I replaced the battery but won't wear it, so I can keep smelling obsession on the band.

I'm a sucker.