I miss my late mom every day of my life. I miss talking to her about life and my kids and kvetching to her about all sorts of things that didn't really matter.
I miss hearing her sing as she cooked or baked, and I miss eating those things that she cooked and baked. I even miss getting frustrated with her when she would tell me that I worried too much about my feelings, to which I would respond, "That kind of advice is what messed me up." I miss our laughing together, and the tears and deep conversations we shared when she was terminally ill.
I feel a little guilty for all the times I told her she was to blame for my problems, because I am sure that must have hurt her. But also, I miss the way she would respond to my criticisms of her mothering skills or lack thereof by smiling at me and saying, "Well, Missy, I did the best I could.
You just wait until your own girls grow up; they will have lots to say about your mothering too." True story, Mom. I'm grateful that my mom taught me I could be an imperfect mom.