My relationship with my mother began in dramatic fashion. From the sound of it, I just about did her in being born (either that, or she was just hallucinating that she was walking in a field with Jesus), and when I was finally pulled out, I was none too happy about it. My cries annoyed the doctor but not her.
I was a bossy little kid but a smart one from all the books she read me. She was not what we now call an “attachment parent,” but who was in the 80s? We figured out how to play on our own while the “Young and the Restless” was on, or we just tuned in along with her to see what Victor was up to next. That said, there wasn’t another mother in my whole grade who would make giant, dinner-plate sized sugar cookies (Santa heads and bells, if I recall correctly) for each of the kids in my class for the Christmas party. And then afterwards she had to go to work for the evening, in her orthopedic shoes, and help people pick out cheap cosmetics, toiletries, toys, and the like at a pre-Walmart type drug store. When she got home at 9:15 or so, she’d often make microwaved nachos or a frozen pizza, or at the very least chop up a frozen Milky Way to share.
Once junior high and high school rolled around, she was working full time during the day. My dad started making our lunches, but some days my mom would wake up early, go to the grocery store, and make us some sort of extra awesome packed lunch (my favorites were when she made tuna noodle or seven-layer salads), complete with little notes or smiley faces written on the napkin. There were other days where we’d wake up and the entire house would be immaculate — she’d cleaned it overnight instead of sleeping.
When I was not picked by a group of catty little old VFW ladies to go to Girls State, my mom excused me from school the rest of the day and bought me a really cute stuffed animal rabbit, now affectionately referred to as Consolation Bunny. I don’t know what everyone got out of Girls State, but I still have that Bunny, and the reassuring knowledge that even when I don’t win, my mom will still think I’m worthy.
By the time I left for college, I, like George Bailey, was ready to kick the dust of my crummy little town off my feet and see the world. My dad got a bit choked up when it was time for my parents to leave me at school the first time, but not my mom. “It’s time,” she told people, and it certainly was.
My first summer after college brought my first taste of heartbreak, as well as a miserable job as a phone customer service representative for a credit card company. One day when I was crying on the phone to my mom during my break, she said she’d bring me McDonald’s during her lunch break. I survived the day, and the summer, but it was hard.
We talked a lot on the phone during law school, so much so that my mom thought that by the time I graduated, she was at least half a lawyer. Just this past year, she really did have to play the part of a lawyer, when I bullied her into contesting a ridiculous traffic ticket that she didn’t deserve. She won, and I couldn’t have been prouder. Frankly, I’d like to hire her to make some exhibits for me for an upcoming trial, because she really knocked it out of the park in the exhibit-making department.
Once in awhile we still get into fights, but when we’re getting along, we get along famously. She makes for a good vacation buddy, despite swimming dangerously far out to sea or cajoling me to drive across mountains. She recognized the dangers of road rage way before that became a thing (always warning us that the idiot driver we wanted to flip off probably had a gun) and has elegant handwriting, even when the situation doesn’t call for it. She has champagne tastes and caviar dreams, and doesn’t hesitate to wear diamonds to the grocery store. Her music taste is questionable but usually harmless. She doesn’t feel old enough to be a grandmother yet, and therefore doesn’t bother me about not making her one. Her lucky numbers are 7 and 3, and she likes the color yellow, especially in roses, although pansies are her favorite outdoor flower. The strep virus is her kryptonite. People think her nails are fake because they are so perfectly shaped, which she does herself. In fact, she has no interest in day spas but can always be counted on to know the latest creepy story in the news. She is unsurprised by cheating politicians or homophobes who turn out to be gay. She makes really good gravy, and also, lately, cocktails.
I could go on, but I should probably get to the point, which is this–I love my mom for paying attention when I needed it and for ignoring me when I really didn’t, which gave me self-confidence and self-reliance that has come in handy many times. I love her for making big deals out of birthdays and holidays. I love her for being unique and fun and funny. I love her for being my mom, a difficult, mostly unacknowledged task. . . until today, since apparently the blog has become my parents’ main source of internet time wasting. Jeez, Parents, just like the Fight Club, the first rule of the blog is, You Do Not Talk About The Blog. You can leave comments on the blog and link to it on your blogs, but you can’t talk about the blog in real life. After all these years, I still have so much to teach them about the ways of the world.
But anyway, Happy Mother’s Day to my incomparable mom! You obviously are a pretty terrific mom, given how well I turned out and all. :)
