My mom was a total beast. A warrior, a soldier, tough as nails, willing to give every last drop of whatever she had.
My mom was not a doter or a coddler or a child worshiper. She was not exactly a soft place to land full of encouraging words for days. She wasn’t into sharing feelings or big dreams. She was a warrior, a protector and an advocate for her children and would go to bat for them when she thought it was important. Mostly, she just let it all play out.
She had no dad. He was dead by the time she was five. They told her for years that he had died of a heart attack. It was only later revealed that it was more likely the drink that killed him. Even then, she tried to rewrite the story, defend him, explain it all away so that he was never the bad guy.
She had no mother by the age of 32. Right before I was born, her lovely weak-hearted mom died alone in her house and Uncle Roger had to climb through a window to find her.
My mother raised four children. Three sons and a daughter. I’m afraid to say she and I fought for most of it. Only now do I understand that we fought because we were too much alike.
She pushed me. She challenged me, she wanted to train me as a warrior soldier just like her. She signed me up, she drove me there, she dropped me off, she waved goodbye she was giving me every last drop of wisdom she could muster. Every minute of free time not taken up by her own causes and missions and committees and work was teaching me how to do it myself. And then culture too. Piano lessons, choir, bell choir, voice lessons, tickets to the ballet, the opera, the symphony, trips to museums, whatever she could do to train me up for life.
She would stay up late into the night packing for our vacation. No matter the finances, we always went on a summer vacation thanks to her scrimping and saving and summer savers program for teachers. We went camping with the camping group, we went to church every Sunday. I thought that was normal. Two weeks vacation in the summer, and together in the pew every Sunday. But it isn’t. That takes warrior/soldier type work. It takes working all day, packing all night, appeasing the kids puking in the back seat driving up the pass type guts. She had guts for days.
There was a time I wished she had taken me out for ice cream. There was a time when I wished she had sat beside me on the couch to talk about boys. There was a time when I wished she was like a best friend like I saw the other girls had with their moms.
But you know what I think now? I think I can buy my own ice cream. I can find my own best friend. Thank God for the warrior/soldier mothers out there like my mom modeling how to get out there and do the damn thing.
She had mercy for days. She had grace and forgiveness for everyone except the Republican Party (but she loved the people no matter what). She picked up the phone even though she knew it was my brother calling to torture her, she picked it up every time. She tried saving him over and over and over again and never stopped trying to offer solace and comfort and help long long after it felt pointless to everyone else to extend it. That takes guts. That takes deep rooted love and wisdom. If only my love were that deep! If only my strength were that intense!
I wanted to elope when I found the man I wanted to marry, but she really wanted the wedding. She planned the whole thing and I pretty much just showed up. She wanted the wedding because she was proud of me and wanted to celebrate something wonderful with me. I probably would’ve been happy spiting her and leaving her out of the whole thing.
She didn’t have much heart to heart in her, but the truth is that neither do I. I’m a cold-hearted monster, you guys. But once, I reluctantly told her I had to go in for further evaluation after a breast exam and, afterward, later that day, she called me up and very earnestly and truthfully asked to be told if I ever faced a medical scare again. It surprised me. That’s why I remember it.
Sad to say, I don’t think we really ever got along very well during that time. Sad to say, I don’t think we ever really got along. I was hoping she’d wake up one day and be what I wanted her to be. I think she was hoping I would wake up one day and just let her be herself and see how she loved me.
My mom’s still here, but she’s fading. If any good can come from an Alzheimer’s diagnosis, it’s the gift of knowing that whatever fight I had been fighting all those years is now, thankfully, over. It’s been over. Now it’s just thanking God for her presence and her hand in mine and the days we have yet to spend.
I’m glad the battle is over. I can still see her fighting through every word, every day, bringing guts to everything just like she always has. Sometimes I want to fight her when I see those old habits that used to drive me crazy showing up even now. Mom, you don’t have to fight so much. Mom, you have earned your rest. Mom, you are beloved and precious and living in grace. Mom, God is using you even now even if you never do a damn thing that feels productive ever again.
I’m thankful I can finally see her clearly after getting it wrong for so many years. I’m thankful I can finally see how uncommonly brave and fierce and beastly she was. Thank God for all the moms. The cuddly ones, the doting ones, the sick ones, the lost ones, the fighters, the nurturers, the distant ones, all of them. I’m kind of a crap mom. Mother’s Day feels like penance for all the years I was a crap daughter.
But I stand by this: I was supposed to be my kids mom. It was planned ahead of time. I was always meant to send them down a certain path to learn certain things, to heal from certain things, to become wise in certain ways in order to help this world. I’m just a piece in their puzzle. I’m not the whole fucking thing. I’m in their supporting cast, but hopefully I am not the show. They get their own show.
My mom always knew that I got my own show just like she got hers. She knew that somehow and was always working to help me let go of her and go find my own thing. That’s an enormous, selfless, awesome gift that I am living every day. Thanks, Mom.