A photographic memory, on Sally's birthday

Sally would have been 69 today -- almost 70! It's hard to believe.

Her birthday got me thinking about a mother's best quality: she knows exactly who you are. Down to your core, every ounce of your being, she's got you pegged. Whether you're sensitive, stubborn, a do-gooder... even though she may encourage you to adjust your behavior ("Oh, Missy, you just need to have a thicker skin"), she knows it's of no real use. You are who you are.

In ninth grade, my friend Heather took a photography class and asked me to be her model. I immediately said yes. (Having spent 90% of my teenage years practicing pouts and smiles for my imaginary Seventeen magazine cover shoot, I felt very prepared.) My favorite shots she took were of me with heavy eyeliner, wearing a vintage fur coat that had belonged to my Grandma Rose (my mom's mom) and looking very serious. I felt so glamorous.

When I showed the shots to my mom, she flipped through and said, "This one's my favorite." I felt sure it was the same one I liked. Wrong. This one was of me wearing a plaid collared shirt and jean overalls, with my hair in a ponytail and no makeup, smiling and staring straight into the camera.

"Mom, that's the one you like best?" I asked. "I look like a farmer!"

"No you don't," she said. "You look just like yourself."

I remember that now, as I think about how I want to look on my wedding day. With options for hair extensions, airbrush makeup, and big poofy gowns -- or even something as simple as a suggestion to dye the gray out of my hair -- I try to explain to people: "No, I just want to look like me."

Sally's birthday rolls around again

Hi everyone,

I hope the winter months have been treating you well. I feel bad that I've abandoned you by not posting in a while. I miss writing here, though, and I'm happy to be back.

So, Sally's birthday is tomorrow (2/22). Another birthday, another year past. I wrote about her birthday last year -- both the good and the bad -- and yet every year feels so different.

This is the eighth year my family will celebrate Sally's birthday without her. It reminds me of the old children's taunt about breaking a mirror and getting 7 years of bad luck. Now, in year #8, I think my family is done with our bad luck.

In the past year, all three Bardachs moved in with their significant others: I moved in with Mark, Dad sold our house and moved in with his girlfriend Susan, and my brother Jordan's girlfriend Robyn moved in with him. What this really means is that all three Bardachs have a lot of love and happiness in their lives. No room for bad luck!

On a personal note, in my own life decisions, I have come to be less frustrated by missing Sally's words of wisdom. I look at my peers and realize they are no longer living according to their parents' rules or guidance; they are living on their own terms and deciding things for themselves. I'm no longer the 20-year-old girl who lost her mom. Now I'm the 27-year-old woman who's living in the present. Basically, I can't be mad at Sally anymore -- I'm too old!

So, even though I do feel at a crossroads right now as I make decisions about my career and my future, Sally is no longer my roadblock. She is still there. Perhaps she was the sunshine on my face as I ran to the Brooklyn Promenade today, or the gentle caress that soothed Mark this weekend while he was sick, or maybe she's just hovering around in some intangible form, like the song lyrics that pop into my head when I'm sad, singing: "Baby mine, don't you cry. Baby mine, dry your eyes. Rest your head close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine." (Yes, it's the song Dumbo's mom sings to Dumbo -- watch the video below!)

Sending love and hugs and birthday wishes to you, Mom.

Trying to figure out how grief works -- honestly

I haven't been completely honest with you this week, and I feel guilty about that.

I wrote the blog about my mom's birthday on the night before her birthday. At the time, I felt optimistic that this birthday would be easier than past ones. After all, this would be the 6th year my family has been through this. And I strongly believe that time heals.

But sometimes that's all just bull. The day comes, and it's as sad as it ever was. Dad and Jordan both get stubborn and argue with each other. I play referee and ask them to be flexible, to get along, to stop fighting. We can't agree on anything: the time to meet, whether our dog Sadie should come or not, what restaurant to eat at afterward. We drive around aimlessly and end up at a diner none of us want to be at. But really, none of us want to be anywhere on this day. As my dad says, "It's not a good day."

I don't want to tell you these things because I want to believe -- and I want you to believe -- that it gets easier with time. Part of that is true. But I also think we need to accept that some days just suck. And often times those days are birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. They're just hard. Even 6 years later, I have trouble admitting that because I just wish I felt better about it.

Grief has a time delay sometimes, too. I got in a big fight with Mark on Tuesday and bawled my eyes out. How much of that was leftover stress from Mom's birthday? It's really hard to tell where one emotion ends and one emotion begins.

I'm sorry if this isn't the sunshine picture I usually paint. But I believe in being honest with you. I hope you'll be honest with me, too.

Big shout out to my girl Ashley who started a blog about surviving from a rare form of liver cancer. She's so brave in so many ways! Go give her some comment love.

February 22: It's Mom's birthday today

Today's sort of a special episode of Sally's Circle. It's February 22, a date that means a lot to me and my family. It's Sally's birthday.

Of all the holidays that remind me of Mom, her birthday is one of the hardest. Birthdays are super-happy celebrations in my family. We always go out to dinner, give cards and presents, and blow out candles. It's a time for family and togetherness and laughter. It's strange to feel sad on a holiday that was always so happy.

So, on February 22, I often can't help but imagine what we would do today if Mom were still alive. Maybe I'd go home to Long Island to go to Tofu, Mom's favorite Chinese restaurant. Or maybe Mom and Dad would have a new favorite restaurant in Long Island. Or maybe since Jordan (my bro) and I both live in the city now, Mom and Dad would drive in to Manhattan and we'd try someplace new. It would definitely be the 4 of us. Or maybe Mom would ask if Mark wanted to come, too, and he'd say yes because he liked her so much and thought she was so funny. Dinner would be filled with trading hilarious stories and Mom would probably say something flirty to the cute waiter, and I'd feign total embarrassment, and then later brag to all my friends about how she gets more and more ridiculous every year.

Tomorrow I will go home to Long Island. My dad, brother, and I have a tradition where we go to the cemetery together on her birthday (we also go in August on the anniversary of when she died). We spend a little time there, anywhere from a few minutes to 20 minutes or so. We talk about how old she'd be now (65 -- shh, don't tell her I told you), the things she liked (teaching, the Gap, Seinfeld), the things we miss (her stories, her laugh). Sometimes we remember the funeral or sitting shiva or nice things other people said about her. We debate whether this year it feels like she's been gone a long time or short time (after all, what is 6 years?). I usually spend most of the time talking to Mom in my head, telling her what's going on in my life and imagining her responses. Before we leave, Dad says "We miss you" and makes sure we all hug. He's such a good dad.

After the cemetery, we go to a diner and eat lunch. At lunch, we don't usually talk about Mom or the past. We talk about the present: Jordan's real estate business, my job or how Mark's doing, dad's girlfriend Susan, recent things in the news, etc. It's general, comfortable, run-of-the-mill talk. And I think it's usually good for all of us to just spend time together without necessarily dwelling on the birthday. After all, that's what the cemetery was for. I think we get most of it out there.

So, with the Saturday Night Live closing music buzzing from my living room TV, I'll also bid you goodnight. Wish me luck tomorrow, but don't worry about me. I think it'll be OK.

Do you have any traditions that bring you comfort? How do you feel about going to the cemetery? Do you feel like that person is there, or not really?