Reflections on Mom

I went out with some girlfriends recently, and the four of us talked about how we had spent the holidays. One of the ladies recounted a fight she had had with her mother, who berated her for having divorced an abusive husband ten years ago and marrying a loving man who makes her happy. Her mother makes her crazy, my friend said, but if she doesn’t try to take care of her, she would feel tremendous guilt when her mother dies. We all agreed it was Catholic guilt, but guilt nonetheless.

My second friend, one who has often spoken of her emotionally distant mother, a wealthy society woman who had a series of husbands and lovers, said that she cut off ties with her mother long before she died. Her mother’s lifelong rejection and self-involvement had so damaged my friend’s health, physically and emotionally, that she believed it was better to live life without her.

At this, my third friend told of her mother’s health problems that had intensified over the holidays. This mother, a woman of gifted intelligence and lifelong depression, rejected my friend’s offer to help. This was no surprise because this mother had always kept my friend, her first daughter, at arm’s length, rarely offering encouragement or praise despite her many accomplishments. Even at the age of 52, my friend struggles with yearning for her mother’s approval, receiving for her efforts a mostly cold shoulder day after day, month after month, year after year.

The ladies were quiet. I guessed it was my turn. “I’m sorry,” I said, “my mother is like gold to me.” I don’t know why I thought I needed to apologize for the gift that is my mother.

They laughed. I smiled.

“She’s kind and gentle and smart, and she’s always been there whenever I needed her.” I didn’t want to brag but that was the simple truth.

I could have gone on. I could have told them how at the age of 10, I felt lucky having braces—stuck with them for 4 years—because it meant that once a month Mom would pick me up from school in the middle of the day to take me to the orthodontist. Afterwards we’d have lunch together at Burger Chef. I don’t remember what I would order but Mom always had a cheeseburger. I thought it was funny, my mother, the best cook in the world, eating a fast food cheeseburger. It must have been an indulgence for her, a woman who cooked for 10 every night, always including dessert, at least until my oldest brother turned 18 and left for college. Then she only had to cook for nine.

I could have told them about the time my two best friends from school stopped speaking to me, inexplicably, and I was left to eat lunch alone and wander by myself on the playground at recess, suffering in silence as a result of what today they would call “girl bullying.” I don’t remember my mother’s words when I came home in tears to tell her, for I told her everything, but it wasn’t long before there was a surprise birthday party for me at my house, and all the girls from school came and we were all friends again. My mother, a woman with seven other children, made my pain disappear, just like that. She welcomed all the girls and made me the center of attention, and we all laughed when a balloon popped against my braces. We played games and all the winners received prizes. One girl didn’t win at any games, but to her delight, she found she had the winning plate, which she discovered when she turned it over and found a sticker on the bottom. Curious how that might have happened.

I could have told them how my mother drove me to the convent every week for piano lessons with Sister Stephanie, even though I had no talent for music; or how she encouraged me to be a girl scout even though that meant she had to help me earn badges and sell cookies; or how she accompanied me to swimming lessons week after week after week for I don’t know how many summers. She sat for what seemed like hours as I took each swimming test, watching me swim lap after lap. Instead of dropping me off and using that time to get something else done, she stayed and watched. Instead of hurrying home when I finished to attend to the many duties that surely awaited her, she stayed and hugged me and said she was proud. I have no idea where my brothers and sisters were during these times; I only know my mother was there with me, always. And I know that if she did these things for me, she did the same for them too.

I could have told them about visits to colleges and moving into apartments in cities far from home. She never told me which college to attend; she asked me which one I liked. She didn’t criticize the cockroach infested apartment on Beacon Hill; she helped me haul a mattress up the stairs and into the tiny bedroom, then slept on it with me while I’m sure the cockroaches peeked out from the cracks in the plaster walls.

I could have told them how I disappointed her in high school when I tried to buy beer underage, or to sneak out with a boy who was what they used to call “bad news”; how it hurt her to have to call me in the morning at my boyfriend’s apartment to tell me her mother had died; how no matter what I did she never rejected me and never in my life gave me cause to doubt her love.

I could have gone on all day about how she took care of me when I was sick, gave me advice when I was doubtful, planted a garden for me when I was pregnant.

When I went off to college I met girls who didn’t get along with their mothers. “Oh, we fight a lot,” they’d say, as if this was somehow normal. “I had myself legally emancipated when I was 17,” one told me to my great astonishment. “You fight with your mother?” I’d think. “I’ve never had a fight with my mother.” And that’s still true today, though I’ve known my mother for 45 years.

Does my mother know her legacy?

She wasn’t a scientist, or a businesswoman, or a politician, or a novelist. She didn’t win an Oscar or compete in the Olympics. She didn’t make any money devoting her life to that profession that we call “wife and mother.” Yet not only is she successful, she is extraordinarily so. After all, how many people do you know who have launched not one but eight lives on the path to happiness? Eight college graduates. Eight happy marriages that produced 28 grandchildren. All borne of one woman, one marriage of 50 years (and counting), one singular devotion to family.

Ask my father how he feels about my mother and he’s likely to reply, “It feels like I won the lottery.” Ask any of my brothers or sisters how they feel about her and you are likely to hear seven more stories about how she guided them, supported them, trusted them, loved them, just as she did all of these things for me.

Just today, a friend went on at length about the hassles of having three sick kids at home at once. She concluded with, “I don’t know how your mother did it.” Well she did do it, and so much more.

So my friends say to me, “Do you know how lucky you are?”

“Yes,” I say, “I sure do.”