Can't Call Your Mom

I've recently discovered a new podcast called "Can't Call Your Mom" by Nicole Weston. Only a few episodes have been released, but I'm enjoying it so far. As part of the introduction to the podcast, Nicole explains that she created the podcast:

"For every woman who has picked up her phone to call her mom and then remembered she's not there." - ME. 

"For every woman who has had a big moment and felt the absence louder than the joy." - ME.

"For every woman who is mothering her own children without the woman who showed her how" - ME. 

Clearly this podcast was made for me and others like me. There are so many similarities in Nicole's story as there are to mine, but I feel like the name of the podcast hits the hardest. Can't Call Your Mom. Nicole shares that for the first two years after her mom died, every cell in her body was programmed to call her mom. To tell her about what they had for dinner and what they did that day. She says, "All those tiny, insignificant details that really only matter to your mom."

Yep. I didn't even realize all the things I went to my mom for, even at 29 years old. 

I called her to ask her what a good sale price is for beef at the grocery store. 

I called her to tell her about my day at work.

I called her to ask her how to handle a tough conversation.

 I called her to tell her that I made a new recipe for dinner.

I called her to ask her how to take a stain out of my clothes.

I called her to tell her that I ordered takeout. 

Everything and nothing, all at once. And she always cared.

I have so many loving, caring people in my life, but nobody like Mom. Nobody who held both the big milestones and the Tuesday-night details the way Mom did. I miss my person.

Nicole ended the episode with: if you could call your mom today, what would you say? 

I'd tell her I love her.

I'd tell her I didn't realize how much I loved her until she was gone.

I'd tell her how grateful I am for everything she did for me, and that I wished I said it more when she was still alive.

I'd tell her I miss the way she'd say "hello" when she answered the phone, and the way she always said "I love you" before we hung up.

I'd tell her about my daughter, Charlee.

I'd tell her how much I wished she could have met her, held her, and helped me raise her.

And then I'd catch her up on my life, including all the insignificant little stories that really only she would appreciate. 

I miss you, Mom. 

I wish I could call you.