I still mother them….

Today my grandson Adriano turns 13.

And if you know my grandson, really know him, then you know he and his mom were ride or dies. She was his person and he was hers. The kind of bond that didn’t need words a lot of the time because they just got each other.

And today, while we celebrate him becoming a teenager, I know somewhere underneath all of that, he is missing his mom. Missing hearing her say happy birthday. Missing her laugh. Missing the way only your mom can make a day feel special.

And if I am honest, it makes me sad.

It makes me angry.

It makes me question a lot of things because life can be incredibly unfair. This little boy does not deserve this kind of hurt. No child deserves to spend their birthday missing their mom.

I think maybe part of why my heart hurts so much for him is because I know that feeling in my bones.

My mom was sick from the time I was seven years old. I remember her missing a lot of things. I remember homecomings and proms and stopping by the hospital in my dress before we went because I wanted her to still be part of it all. I wanted her opinion. I wanted her smile. I wanted her there.

I was 23 when my mom died and at 59 years old, I still miss her every single day.

And then there was my Mom Mom Ginocchio.

I was 16 when she died, and somehow, in some ways, I think I miss her even more. She was my everything. When I think about her, I don’t think first about presents or things. I think about moments.

I remember us making fudge together. I remember her making the very best salad in these little wooden bowls with romaine lettuce and teaching me how to cut the ribs off the romaine lettuce just right. I remember homemade blue cheese dressing that somehow tasted better because she made it. I remember our walks. Feeding the pigeons. Quiet moments that never felt small then and somehow mean everything now.

She was the very first person I gave a ride to when I turned 16 and got my license.

I remember talking to her about getting married one day. She was a master seamstress, and I remember telling her, “I can’t wait for you to see my wedding dress someday.” She knew she was dying. Her heart problems couldn’t be fixed. But I told her she was wrong. I told her I knew she’d be here.

She wasn’t.

So when I look at Adriano today, becoming this amazing young man while carrying grief far too heavy for someone so young, I know what that little boy feels like.

I remember watching him being born. I was the very first one to hold him. I remember Vincent coming to the hospital with his girlfriend, who was going to school to be a PA, bringing Gab a milkshake. Vincent was funny like that. He did not like cleavage. He did not like body parts, especially if they belonged to his sister. Gab asked if they wanted to stay, and his girlfriend said yes.

And I remember the sheer joy on Vincent’s face after Adriano was born.

Watching him standing there by that little hospital bed while they weighed him and wiped him down, he was just in awe of that little boy. Completely smitten from the very beginning. He loved him so much.

And I find myself wishing today.

I wish Vincent could have lived to see the amazing young man Adriano is becoming because he would have been so incredibly proud.

I wish his sister had lived to see her son turn 13 today.

I wish so many things.

I wish both of my kids had lived to see so many things.

But wishes are tricky things because if wishes could become wants, life would be perfect. And we all know life is anything but perfect.

This week grief feels like it is everywhere around me. My friend in California lost her son-in-law. His daughter graduated high school on Friday while her dad was on a ventilator. They took him off, and he passed away. Imagine carrying joy and heartbreak in the very same breath.

That is grief. It shows up at birthday parties and graduations and ordinary Tuesdays. It sneaks into celebrations and sits quietly beside us whether we invited it or not.

And this week, if I am honest, grief feels like it has wrapped itself around so many of us.

But as Scarlett said, tomorrow is another day.

So today, we celebrate Adriano. We love him big. We remind him that his mom would be so incredibly proud of the young man he is becoming. We hold space for the sadness and the joy because sometimes they exist together.

Happy 13th birthday, buddy.

Your mom would never miss loving you. Not for one second.