Never a thought of the joys that flew by,
Her one regret - that she couldn't do more for me,
Thoughtless and selfish, her master was I.
Oh, the long nights that she came at my call to me!
Oh, the soft touch of her hands on my brow!
Oh, the long years that she gave up her all to me -
Oh, how I yearn for her gentleness now!
Slave to her baby! Yes, that was the way of her,
Counting her greatest of services small;
Words cannot tell what this old heart would say of her,
Mother - the sweetest and fairest of all.
- Edgar Guest (one of my mom's favorite poets)
And now, that the sappy tribute's out of the way, let me tell you what I REALLY think of my mother - LOL!
My mom once asked me why I had such intense memories of experiences I had with my dad, but no similar memories of her.
I think it's because she was just always there. Still is.
Does someone notice the air they're breathing? Only when it's gone - she was never gone.
She was my rock. Still is.
I stole her from my big brother Michael (for which he sort of eventually forgave me). She did everything she could to keep us going, which was a real challenge. She helped spark my faith in God, and I could always re-light my lamp by hers while growing up.
She was (and still is) a tremendous extrovert. She could start a conversation with anyone, anywhere, and they would talk to her as if they'd been lifelong friends within five minutes.
I looked on this ability like it was some kind of superpower. I was completely unable to do the same. She would encourage me to socialize, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. When I finally learned how to do it, I realized I didn't care for it all that much. I preferred to write instead.
She also wrote, as her mother before her, and her grandfather before her. She would tell me stories about what they wrote - she was the family historian for a long time. Everything I knew about my own history, I discovered from her.
I like to think I helped her grow up herself, like my kids did for me. Not that I made it easy on her, mind you. We had a short emotional break when I was around 13 - a very tough age for anyone. That was the age I told her I hated her. It was also the only time I ever remembered making her cry.
I apologized later, but I'll do it again - sorry about that, Mom. You were the safe place to vomit out some of the darkness I was feeling at the time, but that wasn't fair to you. I wasn't thinking fair at the time, I was thinking survival. Her natural and determined optimism very often kept me from going all the way over the edge myself.
Our dark period didn't last long though, because my dopey, dorky Mormon mom did something incredibly cool - she started liking David Bowie.
We'd just seen the movie Labyrinth, and my mom developed a monster crush on him. She bought a bunch of his music and played it constantly. She built a shrine to him in a closet.
It surprised the heck out of me. I laughed about it - me, the other one in the family with the rockstar shrine going in my own closet. (Duran Duran, anyone?) It was super-nerdy, and cool. Suddenly Mom and I were friends again. My first concert ever was to see David Bowie at 16...with my mom...and we had a great time.
I then proceeded to grow up, and do a lot of goofy, semi-dangerous stuff in the process of doing so. She supported me the whole way. She loved me. She even laid down the law when things got a little out of hand, and reined me back in.
For years, she was my unofficial psychologist. Whenever we talked, I dumped things I couldn't tell anyone else but my husband. She listened and commiserated...and her fees were very reasonable.
When we had to move from Maryland after my work went south because of 9/11, she was the one who encouraged us to consider Texas (she loves all things Texas). Which we did, and which is where we'll likely remain. And where we'll always keep the light on for her, whenever she wants to visit.
You are coming to visit, right Mom? I think I can dig up some bluebonnets around here somewhere...:-)
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