Storytelling, I have decided, is sort of the verbal hieroglyphics of a family, the color added to the commentary; the explanation for the picture of your brother dressed as a princess at age four long after everyone has forgotten it ever happened.
 

After a couple dozen re-tellings, stories take the place of actual memories. They fill in all the gaps.
 

My mother was a fabulous storyteller. So good that at some point, she simply took over my father’s own childhood stories, which were clearly lacking, and told them herself.
 

She’d recall detail from 50 years earlier, what she was wearing, the precise dialogue, the emotions she was feeling at the time. But if there was any chance at injecting humor into a story, which was pretty much always, you never knew where the facts left off and the improv took over.
 

As a true child of the Depression, she told us of her father Morris, a loving,  hard-working housepainter, and her mother Bess, a woman scarred from her own abandonment as a baby, moving from apartment to apartment on the West Side of Chicago, to escape landlords after rent money often gambled away by her mother.
 

But even this my mother would recount without a trace of melancholy. Like the roller skates she rented for seven cents an hour with her best friend Rhea – “I paid four cents and she paid three,” my mom would explain, “because Rhea was really poor. Her father was on relief.”
 

It was my grandfather Morris who would take my mother, his youngest of three girls, for a canoe ride on the lagoon. “He bought me a sailor suit,” my mother would recall lovingly. “And then we’d row out to the middle of the lagoon, I would throw up over the side and then we’d row back.”
 

There was also the one about her goldfish, which swam round and round in its bowl on the kitchen window sill until one day, with a hot summer sun pouring in, “it jumped out,” my mom said, “and committed suicide.”
 

“Committed suicide?” I asked.
 

“It was the Depression,” she’d say with perfect timing.
 

She told these stories even as her short-term memory faded. The dress she was wearing when, while playing stickball, the neighborhood bully pushed her down, imbedding gravel in her knee. The Chinese doll — her only toy ever, she said, I think to inject the story with some added color — given to her by her beloved older sister Pearl. The game she played under her mother’s dinette, the tablecloth concealing her grown-up, make-believe life in “Chi-Town.”
 

They were her memories, but somewhere along the line they became mine, as clear in my mind as if I lived them myself. And yet why couldn’t I remember the final words she spoke that made sense? The last time she looked at me and knew it was me. For a while, I beat myself up for not having the good sense to ask her more questions while she was still able to answer them.
 

Like how did she make her brownies so light and cakey? How did she always know the right thing to say to make us feel better?
 

How were we supposed to fill in the gaps without her?
 

I miss my mom today.
 

Seniority always rules on Mother’s Day. You may be a mother, but your mother or mother-in-law is still the guest of honor. And if her mother is still around and at the party, she is the queen.
 

This is how it should be. You are your parents’ children until they are gone. And then you are the adults.
 

Thank God for my mother-in-law, because I am no more ready to be guest of honor at that party than I am to be queen.
 

But I think I’m finally comfortable in the storyteller role, able to conveniently make up details to fill in the gaps whenever necessary. And thinking of my mom every time I do it.
 

I never knew her father Morris, but it was his humor that everyone remembers. And it was our grandfather who surely passed it on to my mother and her sisters, a trait imbedded in me and my siblings and my children, a gene I pray will sustain my grandchildren and their grandchildren for generations to come.
 

“Did I tell you about the time my father came into our apartment dragging a long rope over his shoulder?” my mother said, and of course, I pretended she hadn’t.
 

“I was so excited I couldn’t stand it,” she began. “He kept pulling and pulling on the rope. ‘Daddy, daddy, what is it? What is it?’ And then finally, at the end of the rope, was an adorable, scrawny little puppy. I named him Spot.”
 

“Spot?” I would say. “That was the best you could come up with?”
 

“It was the Depression,” she would reply, seemingly the perfect answer for anything. “What did I know? Can I finish the story?”
 

“Sure,” I said.
 

” ‘Oh daddy, I love him, I love him,’ I said, and I was so excited I jumped up with the one roller skate and stepped on the dog,” she said calmly. “And that was the end of Spot.”
 

“What do you mean, the end of Spot?” I asked, horrified. “You killed the dog?”
 

“Well,” she said, reconsidering, “he was never really the same after that.”
 

I loved my mom.
 

It will be two years in August since we lost her. But they’re still her stories.
 

And still her Mother’s Day.

Wild thoughts go through your head when you’re pregnant, scary thoughts like, ‘Why should I cave in to societal pressures and not sprinkle pretzels on top of my pie a la mode?’
 

Once you have the child, other fears take over, many irrational. When my daughter Amanda was born nearly 14 years ago, I was seized by one in particular. Awakened in a sweat in the middle of the night, it plagued me.
 

What would I do if her hair grew to a length where it became necessary for some sort of accessory or other apparatus?
 

Thankfully, by the age of two she wouldn’t let me near her hair. But at one point when she was four and her bangs weren’t long enough to keep in a ponytail, I suggested a double pony and, being four, she went along with it, resulting in kind of a Carrie Fisher, Star Wars look I believe they’re still talking about at Banner Day Camp.
 

When my son Alec came along nearly three years later, I figured it would be a snap. No hair anxiety. And I could at least appear much more competent.
 

So I went to work. When he was three, I dissected his throw.
 

“He’s throwing fine,” my husband said. “Leave him alone.”
 

But I didn’t care for his follow-through and the little hitch in his stride.
 

“He isn’t hitching,” my husband said. “He just got big-boy underpants. LEAVE HIM ALONE.”
 

But I persisted. And by age eight, he was still so conflicted by my earlier attempts at coaching that it took him approximately five minutes to release the ball, which often traveled the length of his leg.
 

“YOUR fault,” my husband would say, pointing at me.
 

This pretty much sums up motherhood for me.
 

Blame and guilt.
 

But I joke, of course.
 

I look at my daughter now, about to graduate eighth grade and so achingly close to adulthood, and all I can see is that scene in my bedroom not long after taking ownership from the hospital. Just her and me, the first real time we were alone after my husband returned to work and visitors left, a moment so frightening that I truly wasn’t sure if I could do it solo.
 

I remember thinking I was not normal, that the baby is supposed to come out and fall into your arms and you are supposed to be crazy in love without a second thought. You are not supposed to look at this person like the stranger she is, someone whose painful sounding cries confound you and turn you inside out.
 

I stuck in a cassette tape that someone had bought us with all the songs featuring her name. “Hey Amanda,” the man sang, “sing along with me. Shake, shake, shake it, like a monkey in a tree.”
 

And so I shook, shook, shook it, singing and dancing around the room with my new dance partner, losing all previous traces of cool and self-consciousness. She was a new toy for me, and I for her, and we were feeling each other out. She wanted to cry, I’m sure of it, but she picked an ideal time to stop.
 

I laid her on our bed in just her diaper, and for the first time really looked at my baby, inhaled her, kissed her deliciously soft skin up one side and down the other, shed my fears and fell, at that precise moment, madly and passionately and forever in love with my daughter.
 

I look at my sweet Alec, whose heart beats inside my own, who seems to feel my joy and my pain and I, his, more acutely than anyone. I remember the first day of kindergarten, when the children were asked to stand and introduce themselves to the class, the teacher leading the way by standing and saying, “Hello, my name is Mrs. Singer.”
 

And I remember her pointing to Alec, and my shy little boy taking his turn first, bravely getting out of his chair and proudly announcing, “Hello, my name is Mrs. Singer.”
 

The adults giggled and Alec blushed and then he slapped his forehead and said, “I always do that.”
 

What a sport. What a kid.
 

What an amazing thing motherhood is.

Most people, most normal people, would describe this past weekend in Chicago as one of the most exciting and successful in this city’s recent sports history.

Two overachieving teams in the Blackhawks and the Bulls extended their respective playoff series in dramatic fashion with two victories at the United Center within about 17 hours of each other.
My family and I were fortunate to attend both.
I wanted to throw up.
First, I should explain, it’s weird for most sportswriters to attend athletic events as fans. At least most sportswriters I know. We’re impatient. We hate our seats. We don’t know how to cheer or for whom to root, even when it’s painfully obvious like when one team is wearing CHICAGO across their chests. And by the time we relax enough to behave like regular fans, the game is over.
I was in a suite for the Hawks’ game Saturday night, which is totally cool no matter who you are and not something I will ever take for granted. That said, I missed three of the Hawks’ five goals. I couldn’t bring myself to wave a red towel. And I felt as if I crashed a party, too nervous to eat too much lest someone throw me out.
I realize I need help.
Sunday was worse. Now four days after L-Day (that’s layoff for future reference), I arrived at the Bulls game right at tipoff due to sleepy children and rainy day traffic.
Generously, I had been offered a credential which would allow me to say “Hi” to my former colleagues, Bulls employees and a few friends courtside. I entered Gate 3 ½ — the press entrance at the United Center named for its original designation at Chicago Stadium — long after media members had passed through and was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of clowns stumbling through.
For those of you who didn’t know me as a child, this part was extremely traumatic for me. So was the part where I picked up my press pass and another old friend issuing it asked gently what she should write under “Affiliation.”
“Tribune?” she asked softly.
“No,” I said even softer.
“How about Bulls?” I offered.
She shook her head and scrawled “Ind.”
“Independent,” she explained, and off I went up to the 300 section looking – and feeling — like a visitor from Indiana.
Just as I was the night before at the Hawks’ game, I was distracted.  I found myself squinting toward the press section, picking out my buddies. I saw K.C. and Brian and Sam. I found Rick and Fred.
Even with my Ind. credential, I was, for the first time in my professional life, an outsider. I felt like a loser skulking around at halftime. I took off my credential and held it because it didn’t feel right to be wearing it as I approached the press table.
The guys hugged me and I hugged them back, my tears spilling onto their sports jackets.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
Would I rather work than leisurely attend a game with my family? Technically, no. And yet I wanted nothing more than to be down there with them, enjoying the early game and lessened deadline pressure, chronicling this wonderful time in Chicago sports.
Back up in the 300s, the fans went wild as the Bulls and Celtics entered their second overtime. A child above us chose to show her joy by screaming at roughly the same pitch as a dog whistle, only this excruciatingly painful to humans.
I slunk down in my seat, looking like an alien who did not realize the game was exciting.
After the Bulls’ victory, as my buddies made their way to the post-game press conference, I left with my family and the masses, wondering if it was a first that the crowd roared as they marched through the concourses.
The sound carried us out of the building.
And very far away.

Showed up at junior high Career Day this morning without a career.
 

I didn’t plan it that way, of course. I had a career when they asked me to come back again this year. Actually, I had a career yesterday. Or was it two days ago? It’s all sort of a blur at this point.
 

My 13-year-old daughter’s instructions were pretty clear on how to address her fellow eighth graders, this being the first time she and I had ever collided on the Career Day circuit.
 

“Please,” she said with real feeling. “Please, don’t be boring.”
 

And then for added dramatic effect, “Really.”
 

This was pressure beyond any deadline I have ever encountered. But so as not to leave the impression that she is somehow insensitive, she said this before I was let go from the Tribune. Let go? Is that how you say it? My husband says “laid off” is OK, much better than fired.
 

Anyway, after my daughter learned I was laid off, after I made a crack about going to Career Day without a career and after she hugged me and expressed her sympathy, she added worriedly, “But really, what are you going to do?”
 

Whatever it was, it seemed it would be OK with her as long as I wasn’t boring. That I would not embarrass her was understood, not that I would comply with that one.
 

I struggled a bit with whether or not to mention the fact that I was no longer a Tribune employee, briefly considered pointing my finger at the kids and warning them that if they followed their dreams, they would get their little hearts broken, that it was a cruel, cruel world.
 

But then I figured that might get me laid off from the Career Day circuit and though no one is paying me, you never know where it could lead.
 

I actually spoke nicely about the Tribune, more out of habit than anything. Told the kids, as I always do, how superior newspapers have always been as a news source as opposed to much of the alternative.
 

I even told one of my favorite stories about Mike Royko, though for the last several years I’ve sadly been getting blank stares in return when I mention his name.
 

I was in college, early eighties, working part-time during vacations answering phones in the sports department of the Sun-Times, and once again I found myself inside Billy Goat’s Tavern, hoping for a glimpse of my journalistic idol.
 

Royko was a regular but I always seemed to miss him until this one particular Friday, as he walked in and settled behind the bar. For an hour, maybe more, I worked up my courage to approach him, rehearsed what I would say (“Mr. Royko, I’ve always been a great admirer of your work” seemed like a good start). And finally, I actually got out of my chair and started in his direction.
 

My arm was out-stretched, ready to make my move, when a drunken patron cut me off.
 

“Hey Royko, that column of yours today was a load of crap,” the guy slurred.
 

But before he could go on, Royko reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter and flicked it in the guy’s face.
 

“There’s your money back,” Royko snarled. “Now, f— off.”
 

Not long after engineering a quick about-face and shooting back to the safety of my table, I marveled at the brilliance of that move.
 

For a quarter, we got Mike Royko. We got his Pulitzer Prize-winning wit and cynical best in its perfect literary simplicity. We got a lot more for a quarter and for a while, we got it for 50 cents and then 75 cents, still a lot more bang for the buck than your average bottle of fake spring water.
 

I believed that with all my heart. And so I would tell the story to kids, imploring them to get into the habit of reading the newspaper, even just glance at the headlines.
 

I found myself telling them that again Friday and the kids didn’t even look too bored. I was quite pleased with myself actually, as I snuck a glance at my daughter, who looked at me almost approvingly.
 

“It wasn’t too bad,” she said afterward in one of those proud mother-daughter moments to savor.
 

 “Next time though,” she added as she walked out the door, “you really need to talk more about Michael Jordan.”

It is 4:30 in the morning and I have spent the last two hours reciting my memoirs in my head, the last half hour going through my buddy list and asking everyone without an away message: “Are you up?”

Apparently, I am not the only one to remain logged on without an away message as the 10 people I have asked are either not up or a little scared of me.

I always thought that whole first-day-of-the-rest-of-your-life thing was one of the lamer clichés. But this is it. And I don’t think sleepless and swollen-eyed is exactly the way it was intended to be interpreted.

Today is supposed to be my last day at the Chicago Tribune. But does anyone finish out their shift after being laid off? Actually, I guess I did. My first thought after being given the news in a phone call yesterday morning was to hang up and think, damn, I had two good story ideas I was working on. One interview I did that won’t see the light of day.

And so I wrote. Not because I needed to finish a shift but because that is what we do. In nearly all of life’s circumstances. Sometimes it takes a little while to gather it up. But it always ends here, in front of the keyboard, a writer’s best friend regardless of where his words end up.

I want to be angry. But right now I am merely sad and sentimental after 19 years and four months at the Tribune. I keep flashing back to that day in mid-January, 1990, standing inside the lobby of the Tower, looking up at all of the famous quotations inscribed in the marble of the walls above me, awe-inspiring and frightening, as chills washed over me.

I remember at age 28, walking outside and seeing my childhood friend Mark, who worked across the street at the Wrigley Building at the time, waiting for me to see if I got the job. And I remember us hugging and crying and him swinging me around like Mary Tyler Moore without the hat.

I am remembering a lot of things, which pleases me since I often have trouble remembering if I put on deodorant each morning.

I will continue writing because that is what we do and because it makes me feel better, like I have not been robbed of the love of my life. But I do wonder how I will ever adjust to identifying myself as anyone but “Melissa Isaacson from the Chicago Tribune.” It is who I am, with or without my employee ID card. It is my identity. It was not a job.

Who am I without that? Am I still a sportswriter? A journalist? Being “Melissa Isaacson from the Chicago Tribune,” gave me the confidence I did not always possess on my own, a veneer of credibility I had not yet earned. And I wonder, rather pathetically, I suppose, after 26 years in the business, if my name can stand up on its own.

I never changed it when I got married, a week past my 30th birthday, because my editor at the time said he didn’t want any of those ridiculous long hyphenated bylines and because I thought it would break my father’s heart not to see our name in the paper any more.

So I agonized over the decision and cried to my husband that I did not want a different last name from him and my future children but that I felt I had to keep it. He laughed and never gave it a second thought, or if he did, he never let on.

I am Melissa Isaacson in the paper and on airline tickets and hotel registries so people who have to, can find me. I am Missy Mawrence everywhere else and Missy Mawrence is really who I am. A mother with two beautiful children, both of whom cried for me yesterday. A wife with a husband so wonderful I do not deserve him.

That’s what I need to remember.