A Dream About My Mom and Alien Robots
plus a little stroll through my spring garden
Today I’m writing about mom stuff as we head into Mother’s Day. I know feelings around Mother’s Day can be tricky for some people, so if this is a hard subject for you, please take care while reading or feel free to skip this one. No hard feelings.
Hi, it’s me. Spring has finally arrived in Seattle, though it may be a false spring! Actually, according to this chart of Seattle seasons, it does look like we’re in it for the duration:
I’ve been busy in the front garden this week and right now it looks messy with soil bags, empty seedling pots, the hose strewn about, and decommissioned trellises that need a new purpose. Around this time in a past year my friend came over for lunch in the garden and I apologized for the mess. Why do I always do that?! I suppose when you “come of age” as a homemaker during the Martha Stewart Years (a pre-social media influencer!), you feel a certain pressure to present a beauty that is perfect within the frame.
My friend said, “What mess? It’s a working garden!” This is why we’re friends.
Lilacs always remind me of my mom, because {Mother’s Day} obviously, but also because she used to sneak into the neighbor’s backyard after dark and help herself to the blooms on his bush. 😎 This is the same mom who grew impatient at the “no left turn” signs for several blocks and told my stepdad Gordy to just turn left already, and when he said there was no left turn allowed she chirped, “I’m sure that means only on weekdays!”
I’d like to think I am who I am today because of her brave example.
Happy spring to you. May you find flowers to enjoy sometime in the near future, even if you have to steal them. (Don’t steal them.)
A Dream About My Mom and Alien Robots
Right before my 41st birthday in 2012, I had a dream about mom. She was still alive at the time, but already in a slow decline from dementia. She could no longer travel to visit us, and due to a significant stroke, was unable to talk on the phone.
At that point I could tell she was still “in there.” As she struggled to communicate, I could tell she knew the words she wanted to speak, but a stroke had damaged whatever brain connections were needed to match her thoughts to the corresponding spoken words. This meant that at times she couldn’t name Bryan but after a struggle would blurt out, “Your husband!” or she would say words that made no sense to the conversation, then grunt in frustration because her brain knew she had said the wrong word.
I remember one time she said a series of disconnected words and grunts over the phone, then I heard a big frustrated sigh, followed by the clearly-spoken phrase, “Oh, this is so crazy!!”
We both burst into laughter at this sudden and weird clarity of speech.
Looking back, these giggles remind me of a line from the movie, Women Talking, which Bryan and I watched this weekend with the kids:
Sometimes I think adults laugh as hard as they want to cry.
In my dream, a space ship crashed into the woods of the dead end street where we lived during junior high and high school. A trail led from the street down a wooded hillside to a huge park below where there were tennis courts, ball fields, picnic tables, a playground, and an ice rink with a warming house. The trail was narrow and occasionally curved to accommodate the hillside. In the winter, neighbor kids would compact the snow along the trail, creating a luge-like sledding situation fraught with the danger of missing a turn and sliding into a tree trunk.
God, I miss the will-they-or-won’t-they-survive antics of my generation’s youth!
It was in this wooded hillside that the aliens landed, and from the crash site a robot emerged that meandered through the neighborhood. The dream sequence seemed heavily influenced by my love for movies like The Iron Giant, Men In Black, and Super 8, and like most dreams, played like an AI generated piece of art that seemed mostly familiar but contained subtle oddities that were unsettling.
A neighbor tried recording a video of the scene. I noticed he didn’t use a giant video tape recorder from the 80s that sat on your shoulder, but a smaller camcorder type from the early 2010s era. Someone in the robot alien’s entourage whisked him and his recorder away in a black Escalade. Terrified, I ran through the neighborhood to my house, where I turned off all the lights and hid under an end table in my living room.
Quick aside: In real life I was no longer able to hide under end tables due to my size and lack of flexibility, so I was really living my best body image life in this dream!
My mom entered the room. I was watching as a third party observer (like Marty McFly watched his incepted life scenes play out), and there she was – feisty, flummoxed, and wondering what I was up to. When I saw her, the third party observer version of myself immediately felt comfort, and then longing, and then sadness.
She wore pantyhose with slippers, a skirt, and nothing but a bra on top. In her hand was a round brush, and I could see her hair was flat on one side, and fluffed to curly perfection on the other. It was how she looked every Sunday morning while getting ready for church.
She demanded to know what was going on, but all I kept screaming was “TELL THEM I’M NOT HOME!”
(The absurdity of this is entertaining, as if the robot alien was about to knock on our door to ask if Jennifer could come out to play.)
I could see the stress in my mom’s face – the pursed lips and the furrowed brow. I recognize this face in my own, now, when my kids pressure me to comply with their demands. She was unsure of what to do with me, which I’m sure was a common feeling she had when I was young. I think I was a difficult kid growing up, rebellious and explosive. I imagine that when you have an unexpected third child eleven years after you were done having kids, it’s a little rough when that kid brings a sense of drama and urgency to everything.
The dream scene ended abruptly, and I woke up. But the essence of my mom’s presence lingered. I held on to her as long as I could, but the morning gently pushed its way into my consciousness, like the rising sun pushes through the trees in the graveyard across the street from my morning window.
And that’s when it hit me how much I missed my mom. I was missing her and she wasn’t even gone yet. But she was mostly gone, and she declined for nine more years until she finally died two years ago today on May 10, 2021.
I still miss her. When I was younger, I didn’t expect I would still need my mom this much at my age. I wish I could lament to her about my stubborn daughter, knowing she had experienced my stubbornness as a teenager and young adult. When did she go through menopause, and what was it like? Did her period sputter and lurch and stall like my old ‘64 Ford Falcon, only to sputter and start up again two months later? What were some things Gordy liked eating when he felt nauseous from chemotherapy? Would she think my floral tattoos are pretty? Or would she sigh and roll her eyes to the ceiling and say, “Oh, Jennifer…”
Thinking of my mom today. Thanks for reading along as I meander through my memories (and dreams) of her.
Until next time,
Jen
Your Turn
You know how I love chatting in the comments. Hope to see you there! Lurking’s cool, too.
When it comes to gardening or houseplants, do you grow things or kill things?
I’ve never noticed the frequency of my crazy dreams until I started writing about them! Do you ever have weird dreams that you remember when you wake up?
Do you have a favorite memory of your mom? Or of one of your kids? Or of your pet or garden or best friend or spouse?
News + Notes 🌼 🌼 🌼
Previous newsletters about my mom you may have missed:
My Mom Died Last Year (Oct 12, 2022) - the world doesn’t stop moving when people die.
Getting Into Denny Mode - (Oct 19, 2022) about Boston Legal and Heaven.
My Community Origin Story - (Nov 2, 2022) about the community I grew up in.
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I’m enjoying a new daily podcast called, It’s Going to Be Okay. It’s from Nora McInerny, who also does the podcast, Terrible, Thanks for Asking, which I’ve been listening to since 2018. I knew I was going to love her new project from the first episode - check it out:
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This week I joined a 4-week writing workshop with fellow Substacker, Julie Hester of Writing in Company, and it was delightful! I’ll write more about it when I’ve attended all four sessions. And this weekend I’m attending a virtual writing workshop with Anne Lamott (squeeeee!). She’s the reason I’m ✌️a writer✌️ so I love any time I can get in her presence, IRL or through a screen. I think you can still join via that link.
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Bryan and I saw the oncologist this week and learned more about his upcoming chemo treatments. Specific dates haven’t been scheduled, yet, but the duration will be about three months with infusions every two weeks. The cancer backstory is HERE. I may post a detailed update there in the next few days - right now I’m feeling pretty tired.
I love reading your thoughts. And memories of Marge are a bonus. My heart aches at the loss of our moms. Thinking of you and Bryan these days.
You have some “extra parents” who need some gardening lessons:)
Thinking of you all today. Keep going.