Passings and Blessings

My dear mother in law passed away on Sunday night. She allowed me to get home from being out of town for the weekend, before she took her last breath. She passed away peacefully, in her sleep, in her own bed next to her husband of 61 and a half years. A real blessing. She was in no pain and didn't suffer, for which I will be eternally grateful.

When I started dating my husband and he would tell me stories about his childhood, he would sometimes refer to the "black-haired" Emma. I don't know that she was actually mean. It may be just a child's perspective. She was trying, most of the time in vain, to discipline four kids while her husband spent most of his time working or in the hospital. As a religious woman, she would try to use the threat of the saints to curtail her kids behavior. Unfortunately, they would sometimes use it against her and tease her about it. She told them that if they ever raised their hand to their mother, an angel would grab it and hold it so they couldn't hit her. So. Tell that to boys and you know what is going to happen. Them running up to their mother with their arms held up in the air, screaming that they couldn't put them down because some unseen force was holding them there. I don't know if she ever chased them with a rolling pin. Or even laid a hand on them. But the "black-haired" Emma had a reputation.

I only knew the "white-haired" Emma. In most of my earliest memories of her, she had one volume. Loud. When Emily was born, Paul's mom called her Bupa (sp?). Doll, in Italian. but she didn't say bupa quietly, she said BUPA! in her face. We used to have to pre-condition Em to it before we came up to visit, by yelling BUPA at her so she wouldn't startle. The other famously "yelled" word was JIMMY! Usually directed at her husband. But sometimes at her son when he was stealing mushrooms out of her sauce.
Some other things I remember about her. She always had her nails done. And her hair. She loved purses, jewelery and shoes. She told me one of the first time I met her that I could call her mom. After we got a priest to stand up at our wedding and bless us, she never, ever had issues with me not being Catholic or Italian. She loved being a grandmother. She loved my kids. She loved me.

After losing two sons, being moved out of her home, being run over by her husband on his scooter and then being moved again into our home, she was diminished. She was physically smaller after loosing so much weight. She was mentally smaller because of the losses she had incurred. She was vocally smaller because of a cough she developed that would take her air away as she was talking. Although even a few days before she died, she could be heard yelling JIMMY at her husband. She was emotionally smaller, I think because of just having using it all with such abandon throughout her life. But she still had a spark. Every once in a while, I could see it in her eyes. That little glint of what I imagine the "black-haired" Emma to be like.

parenthood

I love my children. I love being a mom. But there is probably no job out there that is as frustrating. Or stressful. And you do it without getting to see the results sometimes for years. It's not like other jobs. A heart surgeon has a lot of stress and I'm sure can be frustrating. But you pretty much know as soon as you take the clamps off whether it is a success or not. An auto mechanic knows when he puts the key in and tries to turn over the engine, whether the job he performed was a success. There are many things that you do as a parent that you can see the results fairly quickly. But there are huge things that you deal with that take months and sometimes years to prove out. So instead of getting immediate feedback to justify what you are doing, or at least give you a bit of insight as to whatever you are doing is working, a lot of time you are left laying there in the middle of the night questioning everything you did that day.

And don't get me started on the guilt. You feel guilty for everything you do. Even when they turn out alright. You still go over them, thinking of ways you could have handled it better.
It is a vicious cycle.

I wonder as I watch my inlaws going through the final stages of their lives, if they still feel that way. Do you always worry about your kids? Do you still second guess your decisions? Do you lay awake at night and wonder if you did it right or at least well.
Is there ever a point in your life where you can deem the job successfully done?