My Other Mother
Perhaps one of the most awkward relationships is that of the mother-in-law.
I was just 20 when Cliff and I married. I adored his parents; good, Godly people, and always kind to me. No complaints. But I could not call Shirley “Mom”. That name of honor belonged to my birth Mom. She and I were deeply connected, our DNA shared in her womb. How could I allow myself to call anyone else Mom?
But I couldn’t call her Shirley, either.
That was somehow less than honoring of her roll as my husband’s mom. There should really be an inbetween name. (“Hey there” is not the best.) Oh, I finally landed on Mama Shirley. I hope that was okay with her. I never asked! She graciously answered to my term of endearment.
When children came along, Shirley was “Grandma”…but again, she wasn’t my Grandma. So I bounced back and forth with each loving title.
More importantly was how it felt to have two moms. They were so very different from each other. I always knew that no matter what I did or said, my mother would love me unconditionally. Somewhere in my insecure heart, I always felt like I was still trying to win approval from my in-law mom—like auditioning for the daughter job. That was all on me, not her. She may have felt the same figuring out how to be a mom to me. We both tippy-toed on eggshells at times, attempting to not accidently offend.
Twenty-four years after I was married, my mother passed away. I was lost without my mom. She was that True North sort of lady. With her, I knew for sure who I was.
I remember calling my sister and sharing that feeling of being motherless.
“Who will I call when I have good news?”
Kathy said, “Call me.” And we are still that part of our mom to each other.
About six weeks after Mom was gone, my father-in-law died, so suddenly, unexpectedly. Those were the most raw, emotionally challenging days ever. My mom died just before Mother’s Day; Cliff’s dad was gone just after. Grief is an unwelcome visitor that never leaves, but with time, it just becomes less loud.
As we helped Shirley through her loss…one day I simply called her Mom.
It wasn’t a title. It was our relationship. We needed each other. Oh, she still had her two other children, and I was, in no way, a replacement. She found room in her heart for me, and I found room in my heart for her. Profound love doesn’t stop when someone dies. It wants to go somewhere. It needs a hug to be returned. “Mom” and I began to hug differently. Longer. We held on tighter to each other.
Loss brought us closer, forever.
In the years that followed, I learned her. Not about her. Not the surface stuff, like her favorite perfume or how she cooked rice pudding—but how she felt, what drove her, the depth of her faith, the despair in her pain, and where she found hope. I learned that she was strong beyond what she showed, because her strength was God, himself. I sought out her opinions, and she sought out mine. We had become mother and daughter. Till the day she died.
My two moms. One diapered me, the other did not. Both loved me and I adored them both. There was always room in my heart for two Mom’s, at different times, in a different way.
I’m so thankful.
I miss them both.
