For most girls, when we reach a certain age, our mom is our best friend. Normally that age is about 13. We become a woman. We look to our mom to help us with clothes and make up and boys. We still love our daddy just as much, and enjoy our time with him, but mom just understands heartbreak and boobs and hormones so much better. For me, I didn’t hit that stage until I was about 21. I was an adult, married and a mom myself, when my mom became my best friend. The one I ran to with all my problems.
Growing up, our relationship was very much reversed. I was the mom and she was the child. She came to me for style and make up tips. I handled boys and heartbreak on my own. Hormones and periods we just didn’t talk about. So when I began talking to her again after cutting her our of my life for about six months, it was like I was getting to know her all over again. It was a weird experience to rediscover your own mom. I was much happier with our relationship. But when she died at the young age of 48, I was once again left floundering at an age where self discovery is huge. Especially when I was going through something very similar to what her and my dad had went through. An affair.
As my life fell to pieces, the only person I wanted was my mommy. My oldest son started acting out at school and cussing out his teachers. I wanted advice from my mom. My divorce was finalized and I didn’t know if I wanted to call my mom to cry or to celebrate, but either way I wanted to call her. I met someone new and started dating, and I literally had to stop myself from picking up the phone and scrolling through my contacts to find her number.
Many people in their 20s don’t realize how easy they have it. They can call their mom whenever they want. Me? I think at her a lot. I talk to her in my head. I write to her. I flounder and look around for someone, anyone, to help me. Sometimes that bites me in the ass because I turn to the wrong people for help. I don’t have my best friend here anymore.
When life gets rough, I muddle through. I call my dad and talk to him about things dads want to talk about. (So when my car breaks down or an appliance breaks I call my dad.) I call and cry to my no-matter-what friend, who I am grateful for. I think at, write to, and talk to my mom in my head. Some days, I don’t want to leave my couch because the pain is just too much. Other days, I smile and laugh at little things that remind me of her. A car my boyfriend just bought, a song that comes on the radio, the Easter flowers that are popping up in this abnormally warm weather.
It especially hits home now, as we are approaching the three year anniversary. My oldest will be starting second grade, my youngest will be starting kindergarten, I’m turning 25 and having a quarter life crisis. As I continue to try and rebuild my life, I keep trying to turn to her to see how she did it. She’s been here and done this more than I have. She rocked her 20s. I just have to try and be as badass as she was.
