Where did she go?

As I watch Meredith grow and learn I am sometimes struck hard by the thought that 35 years ago my mother was in the same point of her life.  That she most likely watched me at age 2 and perhaps was filled by the same love and wonder that I am, the indescribable bittersweet anticipation about how she will turn out and if I will do alright as her mother.

I miss my mother.

I wanted to be like my mother.

Not the woman who is there now, consumed in body and spirit by the ravages of her addictions -- but the woman who was.

The woman who would sit and talk about books and authors with me, not the one who hasn't even glanced at the book I'm featured in (even though she's had an author-autographed copy since it was published).

The woman who would tell me I was beautiful and meant it, not the one who laments to others -- "She used to be so beautiful, but she won't lose the weight.  Such a shame."

The woman who told me I could be a writer, or a vet, or anything I wanted to be.  Not the one who drinks her vodka and tap water and tells her friends what a huge disappointment I am because I never got a degree.

The woman who would bring me orange Hi-C and stroke my hair when I had a fever when I was sick, not the one who didn't show up for either of the births of my children or even come to see me when I was confined with high-risk pregnancies.

The woman who could walk into a college, take a course just because it interested her, get an A and walk out again for a year, who faced challenges without blinking an eye -- not the one who faked a stroke just to get me to come see her while she was binging.

The woman who couldn't cook worth a damn but remembered your favorite foods on your birthday or baked your favorite cake, not the one who hasn't remembered either of my children on their birthday.  Not even Meredith's first birthday -- which I think might be a Grandparent cardinal sin.

The woman who I could come to with my boyfriend woes, or speak frankly about sex with -- not the one who feels that I should've married the abusive alcoholic I was with when I was 21.  "He may have been a drunk, but at least James wouldn't be deaf."

Please.  Don't let me be like my mother.