Remembering Margaret

Today, October 2^nd, is my little sister’s birthday. Margaret would have been 38 today. I like to remember her especially today, the day she was born, rather than commemorate the cold day in February when she died.

Her two boys, my nephews, are 10 and 13 years old, and both doing well. Davis looks so much like his mom that it startles me. Even though I know this, each time I am going to see them, I have to do a little emotional preparation. I love seeing them, and I hope they love seeing me too.

I talk to them about their mother whenever I can – they used to just sit quietly, not really knowing how to respond, I think. But it seemed to give them some comfort to have someone talk about Margaret and not be whispering or cautious. Besides, there are so many stories to tell.

Margaret and I were close – we went to the same high school and college. We rowed on the same crew team (and in fact in the same boat) at college, and traveled around Europe for 10 weeks with nothing but our backpacks and a Eurailpass. I want my nephews to know some of the wacky funny stuff Margaret was famous for, in addition to her more noble features.

Margaret was a daughter, a sister, an athlete, a gifted cellist, a doctor (Ph.D. in molecular biology and biochemistry) and a wife. It used to make her nuts that everyone called her husband "doctor" (he's an MD), but not her. After having her sons, though, she earned a new title that she cared about more: "Mom".

And most of all, I think she loved being a good mother. Her boys knew they were loved. They had space to develop into individuals. She played with them, traveled with them, went cross-country skiing with them. She was ferociously protective of them, but not too permissive with them. She loved them powerfully, and completely. Margaret came fully into her own as a mom.

I hope, some day, to be a mom like Margaret was.

I am grateful that my brother-in-law has since married a generous woman, who is doing a great job raising my nephews. She’s never tried to erase Margaret’s memory, and pictures of Margaret are still in evidence at their house. At the same time, life moves on, and the boys’ memories of Margaret must be fading a bit. They call John’s new wife “Mom”. And they should – she cares for them every day, cooks them meals, takes them to schools, makes them do their homework, comforts them, and loves them like a mom.

And still, it breaks my heart a little bit whenever they call her Mom. I don’t want to take anything away from her. I just want Margaret to still be here, answering to that name.