Hug Your Mom Tight For Me – NYPOST.com


Hug Your Mom Tight For Me by Cindy Adams

I have reprised this column every Mother’s Day since springtime of 2000. That’s when I lost my own mom. It was akin to losing my whole world. Each year this special weekend is my only way of touching her.

I’m a mother lover. I print this annual tribute because I never loved any creature, big or small, man or woman, old or young, human or animal, the way I loved my mother. And not in this life nor in those the Spirits say I may pass through, will I ever love anyone more.

My grandmother, who came over from the old country, Russia, was a janitress in the New World. Cleaned stoops. Took in boarders. Made chicken soup so thick you broke your wrist lifting the spoon. And once washed my mom’s only party dress — pretend satin, trimmed with fake fur — then stuck it on a radiator to dry. The thing turned stiff. Grandpa never made a living. He was a tailor but couldn’t save mom’s only party dress.

They had five children. My mother Jessica, the baby, was born in Liverpool. Mother married a dentist but liked nothing about him including his teeth. She divorced him after I was born. An executive secretary, she was a single parent.

I was always sickly. But, no matter what, she was always there. She’d pawn things because we needed other things. She then married a dear man who loved me and sold insurance. Mostly I remember that she was always, always there for me.

She dug up my birth father when I was 12 so we could meet because he’d never once seen nor supported me. We met. I was distinctly ungood-looking at 12. He continued to not care to see me again. Years later as life changed for me, he then reached out. Mom and I both then told him what he could do with his reach.

Mother was beautiful. I was not. She had my nose fixed. Improved my hair line. Made me diet. Fed me little green Feosol tablets because I was always anemic. Gave me speech, posture and acting lessons. Took me to a modeling agent and announced: “My daughter is going to become somebody.” Underwhelmed, they said, “Maybe, but not here.”

At age 8, my class had a May 1 Maypole Dance in the park. We each bobbed and weaved, over and under, braiding our streamers into the Maypole. It was a chilly morning. Only my mother alone came bearing a sweater. I was mortified. Was I not a grown-up? No other mothers were babying their children. I hissed at her, “Go away.” She blinked at me. She went away. But there were tears in her eyes.

That happened civilizations ago, but I still cannot wipe that image from my mind.

Yearly readers request I reprise this Mother’s Day Valentine. Last week, again, a copy of 2007’s column was sent to me as a reminder. I think this is the part they want:

I can’t believe my mother is gone. Even in my heart the word is capitalized. Every winter she was in Palm Beach with an army of aides. Every summer in the Hamptons. Even when she lay unfocussed and unspeaking in the hospital bed in the country home I provided for her, she was in my life.

Even in those years when she didn’t know who I was, I knew who she was. I knew somewhere inside that shell was the stunning, bright, sassy, verbal, vibrant, witty, dynamic, fun-loving, killer lady who had forever been my everything, the core of my being.

The last time I hugged her an icy stab of fear sliced through me. I sensed an increased fragility. I wanted to crawl into that bed alongside her, but there was no way. No room. Besides, I was terrified I’d frighten her or, worse, the bed would collapse.

And so I pressed up close, my body flat against the protective side bars. All I could do was stroke that small head. And place against the cold steel railings of the hospital bed a stuffed teddy bear so those curled fingers might touch something soft.

I remember that gorgeous head when it was full of information. When it ruled worlds. When it was big and strong and knowledgeable and featured that powerful mane of thick red hair. It seemed tiny now. The hair white. Sparse. Shiny.

I was an only child. I married in my teens. So we were four. Then dad went, and we were three. Next, my husband, who was the same age as my mother. And then we were two. And now I’m one. And my only family are two yappy Yorkshire terriers — but at least they come from England as she did.

It’s tough. Tough to lose your mother. It is now a dozen years since I’ve lost my mother. It’s still tough. I’d give up everything to give her a gentle, easy, slow-moving hug today. Just one. One that wouldn’t alarm her. One that couldn’t be returned. Or even understood.

I’m aware that each Mother’s Day, for whatever reasons, families become aware there are wide gaps between many a mother and child. Not for me to sit in judgment.

It’s just that — if it’s within your ability — call. Buy flowers. Send a gift. Write a note. Tell your mother you love her.

I wish I could.

I can’t anymore.

Read more: If you still can, please tell your mother you love her – NYPOST.com.

A Dose Of Sarcasm For Valentine’s Day


Just when we thought we survived the holidays, here comes another one sneaking around the corner-Valentine’s Day. People have their opinions about Valentine’s day, some endorsing it and others dismissing it to a day dedicated to greeting cards.  Fact is, it is considered an annual traditional holiday and for people in mourning, it’s a reminder of our loss. It evokes feelings of memory and traditions, tugging at our emotional boundaries.

Here’s my advice: if you made it through the past two months of holiday “festivities,” maybe crying in your eggnog while hurled in a fetal position in your bed (oh wait, that was me..) then this too, shall pass.

Now, my opinion and 75 cents will buy you a cup of  coffee (unless you’re at Starbucks.) Make no mistake, I’m not an emotional counselor, a psychiatrist or any type of doctor of any kind. I simply blog about mental health advocacy and list the professional agencies here on the site for you to use as needed. My expertise is that of being a human being and any advice I give is based off of my personal experiences.

I’ve read many articles with suggestions on honoring your loved ones and their memories by baking cakes, writing personal notes, lighting candles, and so on. They bore me, especially because I won’t take any of those suggestions. Not only that, I won’t feel bad about not taking them. You know why? Because I’m learning how to live with loss my way. I have been doing that for years. There is no cure, remedy or corny sentiment that anyone can share with me that will make me any stronger than I am right now. We’re all unique individuals and we all learn recovery in our way, on our own time.

This year, another Valentine’s Day will come and go, like it does every year.  I’ll think of my life, my loved ones and probably get a postcard from my chiropractor or dentist, wishing me a happy holiday while reminding me to come in for my overdue check up.

For all of you One To Six readers, have a wonderful Valentine’s day. Celebrate it, ignore it, or simply sit back and see where the day takes you.  I’ll be here, thinking of my next holiday post…

Looking for a great read? Check out “The Motorgirl Memoirs: Adventures in Mania and Semi-Normality”


“Newcomer Author Leah-Carla Gordone (daughter of Pulitzer Prize Winner Charles Gordone) shares her life’s journey in this storybook-like autobiography 20 years in the writing; THE MOTORGIRL MEMOIRS encompasses Gordone’s unusual odyssey through Manic-Depression.”

"The Motorgirl Memoirs: Adventures in Mania and Semi-Normality"

Read an excerpt on her personal website: http://www.myspace.com/themotorgirlmemoirs.

Found this hysterical affirmation list. Perfect in lieu of a resolution list. Enjoy!


Attainable Affirmations

1. As I let go of my feelings of guilt, I am in touch with my inner sociopath.
2. I have the power to channel my imagination into ever-soaring levels of suspicion and paranoia.
3. I assume full responsibility for my actions, except the ones that are someone else’s fault.
4. I no longer need to punish, deceive, or compromise myself, unless I want to stay employed.
5. In some cultures what I do would be considered normal.
6. Having control over myself is almost as good as having control over others.
7. As I learn the innermost secrets of people around me, they reward me in many ways to keep me quiet.
8. I need not suffer in silence while I can still moan, whimper and complain.
9. Joan of Arc heard voices, too.
10. I am grateful that I am not as judgmental as all those censorious, self-righteous people around me.
11. When someone hurts me, I know that forgiveness is cheaper than a lawsuit, but not nearly as gratifying.
12. The first step is to say nice things about myself.

The second, to do nice things for myself.
13. The third, to find someone to buy me nice things. As I learn to trust the universe, I no longer need to carry a gun.
14. I honor and express all facets of my being, regardless of state and local laws.
15. Today I will gladly share my experience and advice, for there are no sweeter words than “I told you so!”
16. Who can I blame for my problems? Just give me a minute… I’ll find someone.
17. I am learning that criticism is not nearly as effective as sabotage.
18. I am willing to make the mistakes if someone else is willing to learn from them.

Because We Must Laugh, Too


Even if it’s through the tears, we must laugh, too.

Signs of Depression

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