|1.||feeling resentment against someone because of that person’s rivalry, success, or advantages (often fol. by of): He was jealous of his rich brother.|
I live in a town in one of the most expensive counties in the country. Even though my house isn’t small, in comparison to the McMansions surrounding me, it is teeny-tiny. More often than I would like to admit, I am jealous of what other people have – big center island kitchens, master bathrooms, built in pools. One or two days of brooding about their beautiful custom fire pit in the backyard or luxury car and I get over it. I know what is important in life and don’t need a big house to make me feel better.
This is what I always though being jealous was like. This is, until my mother died. Sure, that little green monster of envy would flair up after having to explain to my six year old for the twentieth time why we don’t have a dedicated “play room” in our house, but NEVER in my life have I really known what the word means until now.
Since my mom died in June, every time someone talks about their mom, even in the most casual of references, I feel a pang in my heart. When I go shopping and see a women walking through the store with her mom next to her, I miss mine. When I read a book that describes a relationship between a daughter and her mother, I feel sad. Last night my daughter cried. I am not sure what brought it on, but all of a sudden she cried big tears over missing her grandmother. Just thinking about her pain made me sad, angry and yes, jealous. Why do other children still have their grandmas to play with, to sleep over their houses, to talk to? Why does my six year old have to know this pain? Why does she now have to have the word cancer in her vocabulary?
Just four years ago, at Christmastime, someone took a picture of my grandmother, my mother, myself and my daughter. Four generations of women. Now there are only two of us left. Yeah, I’m jealous all right.