Dear Mom,

I fear that I have failed you.

Before you died, you asked us to never stop telling stories about you. It was, in my memory, your biggest dying wish. You wanted to make sure that your memory would live on. That we wouldn’t forget you. 

I just went and asked my kids what they know about Grandma Janis. First, they asked which one. It gets a little confusing since their other grandma is Janice. So, I reminded them I was asking about my mother.

Idris said, “She loved you because you are her daughter”. Super sweet and very accurate. But apparently that’s all he knows about you.

Scotland said, “She liked to dye her hair red and never liked to brush your hair. She was a really kind grandma. She died before I could meet her.”  

I feel, if these were the only things my kids could remember about you, I probably need to do a better job of reminding them of their grandmother. 

I will admit that their memories at this age are kind of funny. Like they don’t remember stories about you that I have told them before, I swear I’ve told them more, but they will never forget that time I didn’t buckle them into their car seats or that time I used a bad word in traffic.

I know they’re still young. And beyond the fact that they have shit memories, they also have plenty of time to learn more about you. But I also know that I can do better. Life can be shorter than expected. And the last thing I want is for something to happen to me before I get the chance to pass along the beauty of you to them.

Later, Scotland asked me why it’s important to know about someone who is dead who she has never met. Which is a good question, I guess. I mean, if it wasn’t important to learn about people who died before we were born then we wouldn’t be learning much history. But she’s seven and I understand her point. What her question tells me, is that she needs to feel a sense of your importance in her life. A connection to you specifically. This is my job. My obligation. To ensure that you are part of them. Even if you’re gone. Even if they’ll never meet you. You are still Grandma Janis. Mommy’s Mommy Janis to be more specific. 

I fully understand how easy it can be for a child to forget someone who isn’t there. Out of sight out of mind. And if they’ve never met the person, it’s even easier to forget. My grandfather died long before I was born. I heard stories about him, but not enough to get a sense of what his relationship to me would have been like. I often wondered if he would have liked me. Would we have been close? I never had close grandparents. Being born so much later than most of my siblings and cousins, my grandparents were all older and I often got the feeling they weren’t interested in a relationship with me.

I want my children to know that, without a doubt in my mind, their Mommy’s Mommy Janis would have loved them with every ounce of her being. I know you would have been the best grandma to them because, as Scotland so rightly said, you were a really kind grandma. I watched you be Grandma Janis, AKA G-Ma J, to four grandkids. I know how much you loved each of them. And I know how much you would have loved the four that came after you died. I just need to make sure my kids know that.

So, I’m trying to compile a list of things to tell them about you. Ways to connect.

This is what I have so far…

You loved dancing. Salsa was the big one. There were the years of line dancing that I hated. You’d force us to put on cowboy boots and join you at some dance venue that was excruciating for two Jewish kids from the suburbs of Chicago. There was the year you signed me up for dance with the mother of a boy in my class. I remember going down into the basement of their house to find a group of other girls who were all two years younger than me. And I knew I didn’t want to be there. You wanted me there.

I don’t think I asked you enough what your loss of dancing did to you emotionally. I can hardly imagine the pain it must have caused you when you were too sick to slip on your dancing shoes and go out to Buzz Nightclub for salsa night. Dancing was such a huge part of your overall happiness. It breaks my heart that you had to suffer through your years of dying without it. 

You loved music. R&B. Beatles. Pretty much anything that played on Oldies 104.3. You were always open to new types of music. Different genres. But your default was anything that you could dance to. Anything with a good beat.

You adored food. Had a terribly dysfunctional relationship with eating. But you loved good food. Gourmet food. Homecooked food. Famous chefs. Well-known restaurants. You were mostly adventurous. Tried new things. Liked flavors. Spice. Food from all over the world. Until you got sick and even black pepper hurt your tongue. Then it was a lot of turkey and avocado. A lot of tortillas and eggs. Mostly bland. Did that hurt you? To lose such a big part of you? To lose that sense of adventure through the foods of the world?

You loved getting dressed up. Maybe didn’t always love how you felt in your clothes, but you were great at looking elegant. And you loved your jewelry. I did too. I loved sitting with you as you took your jewelry off at night. Looking through your containers of earrings and necklaces and bracelets. Thank you for giving me all your jewelry when you died. I keep it in a drawer and hope to wear it someday. I love it, but it just isn’t practical in my life. I don’t get dressed up as often as you did. Now, some of it will never be my style. Not going to lie. I thought you’d never get over the Patricia Locke phase. And you didn’t, I guess. You wore that stuff till the end. I have most of it now. Sorry to say, but I think it’s kind of ugly and will likely give it to the kids.

I lost your ring. The ruby and diamond ring that you gave to Jeremy to use for our engagement. I loved that ring. It was beautiful. Reminded me of you whenever I looked at it. When we moved from Chicago to Los Angeles, Idris was only six weeks old, and my fingers were still too swollen. I swear I had packed it. But my brain was mush those days. The ring never made it to Los Angeles. Still makes me sad when I think of it. 

Oh, and sorry for losing your gold wedding band in Lake Michigan when I was a kid. That was a bad day for all of us.

You loved reading. Books. Newspapers. Magazines. You subscribed to Bon Appetit, National Geographic, TIME.

I believe there was a long Romance novel phase. Right? Danielle Steel. 

You loved TV and Movies. Made sure to go see the award nominations each year. Even if that meant you’d go to the theater alone. You were obsessed with all the popular shows. I miss talking to you about the new episodes each week. It still saddens me that you never got to the endings. Never saw the end of Downton Abbey. You died six weeks before the finale of Sons of Anarchy. Years of lead up and then you just couldn’t follow through. 

I wonder if you felt the need to escape into other worlds. To make up for your reality. I think we all do that at times. We all wish we had more magic. More excitement. 

You loved watching Chicago sports. I can still hear your high-pitched cheers when the Cubbies scored and your foot stomps when the Bears fumbled. The house would shake along with your emotional range. You died before the Cubs won the World Series. It was a special day in the city. We were living blocks away from Wrigley and when they won, we took our three-week-old baby Scotland outside. It was as if every door in the city opened at the same time, flooding the streets with mostly drunk Chicagoans. It only took us a few minutes to realize this wasn’t the best place for a newborn and we went back inside.

To me, you were good at everything. Gardening, dancing, piano. You were the best cook. You could follow a recipe perfectly. Maybe couldn’t come up with an original recipe, but that’s ok. Most of the things you tried you were naturally good at. I’m sure you failed at many other attempts. Most of us spend years failing. But I remember you being good often. And enjoying the learning process.

Scotland reminds me so much of you in that way. She is good at everything she tries. Athletics. Dance. Music. Art. Reading. Writing. Math. She’s honestly good at all of it. And I’m not just saying that because I’m her mom. I can’t decide if she’s good at it because she is enthusiastic about it or if she is enthusiastic because she is a natural. Either way, she excels and enjoys learning. Soaking up all information and skills. 

And my daughter is delightfully outgoing. She knows everyone’s name. Introduces herself to every person she meets. This is the quality of hers that reminds me the most of you. I remember going to Michigan in the summers and all the shop owners of the small towns would welcome you. They’d never forget you from the summer before. 

You share so many qualities. Even your birthday.

Idris also reminds me of you.

He is so different from Scotland in so many ways. He is great when he wants to be. He’s been diving headfirst into the pool since the age of three but refuses proper swim lessons. He absolutely loves books, but he has no interest in learning to read. He’d much rather make up his own words to go with the pictures. He is all imagination where his sister is mostly logic. He doesn’t like to be told how and when to play. Hates being coached. He’ll kick that ball when he feels like it.

He loves math. Always happy to sit with me and put together a giant puzzle. We’ve done 500-piece puzzles together. Even a few 1000-piece ones. It reminds me of the days we’d sit together in the living room and put together a puzzle on the card table that you’d pull out just for that purpose. I loved those moments with you, and I love them with my son. We glue the puzzles together when we’re done with them and hang them on the walls just like you did when I was a kid. Do you remember the one that hung in the basement? It was an image of candy. Really bright colors. We have one in our living room that has Day of the Dead sugar skulls. You’d love it. 

Idris is the absolute best at cuddling. Still, at five, he can curl himself into the tiniest ball and snuggle up in my arms.

Both of my kids give the best hugs. They are both kind and full of love. They love me. They love family. They love each other. And they’d so love you.

They also both drive me crazy at times. Asking me a million questions. They love to correct me. To bring attention to my flaws. To constantly question my choices. They remind me of you in so many ways.

It is starting to occur to me that they are you. They are tiny little versions of you. They love the same things you loved. They have your joy for life and learning. They have your sense of humor. Your desire to laugh. 

They can carry on your legacy.

Idris has your love for nature and gardening. He loves to feel the sun on his skin. Wants to constantly explore the world and go on adventures. He would be your favorite travel buddy. I bet you would take him on so many trips if you were here. You’d fly around the world together. Just as long as he isn’t out too late. Idris likes to be in his bed once the sun goes down.

Scotland would go out with you at night. She’d be the one to go dancing and to all the concerts with you. I wish you could introduce her to musicals like you did for me when I was a kid. I haven’t done that with her yet. I could see you spending the days going to restaurants and reading at coffee shops. I bet she’d love to go get mani/pedis with you. That was never my thing. She’d be your girl for that. 

It’s hard not to get sad when I think about the relationship you could have had with them. But I do recognize that it is on me to make sure they understand how close you would have been. And that just because you are gone, doesn’t mean they can’t have a relationship to you. I can be that person for them. I can do the things with them that I know you’d do if you could.

I can take Scotland for spa days and to brunch and to concerts. To dance and laugh and eat and enjoy life.

I can take Idris to the Botanical Gardens and can help set him up with a spot on the balcony to watch his own plants grow.

And I can show them all your favorite films. Read them your favorite books. I can cook them all your favorite foods. Introduce them to the music and the sports you loved most. Without you here, I must do my part. And it doesn’t take much. It’s only a small amount of effort for me. Barely any at all really. I mean, I also have you within me in so many ways. You left a lasting impact on your daughter. And if I am true to myself and live my life as you wanted me to. Enjoying every moment. Enjoying the journey. Then it seems like a guarantee that they will know you. That they will connect with you. Ultimately, connection is the whole idea here. They need to feel the connection they have to you. The direct line to Mommy’s Mommy Janis. It’s there. It has been there all along. I just need to remind them. I need to continue to remind myself.

I love you, Mom.

Love, 

Rachel