My favorite line in the classic holiday movie, A Christmas Story , is not “You’ll
shoot your eye out, kid” or “I can’t put my arms down!” or even “Fra-gi-le…must
be Italian.” – although that last one makes me chuckle every time. It’s without a doubt the one movie line that amuses
me during the feral frenzy of dinner hour as I shell pistachios, boil pasta,
pour organic milk into sippy cups, and dance around discarded Cheerios, all with
a one-year old clinging to my leg like a ring-tailed lemur:
“My mother had not had a hot meal for herself
in fifteen years.”
Those may be the truest words ever spoken.
On this Mother’s Day weekend, I’ve been reflecting on the vast quantity of otherwise overlooked and unacknowledged sacrifices my own mother made
throughout my childhood. I barely
remember a sliver of them, but there were thousands, tens of thousands. And I’m only aware of them now because I’m
the one doling out the martyrdom for two little toe-heads of my own.
I found that the transition to parenthood unraveled much
like astronomy. One minute you are gazing
into a blank, black infinite sky and the next, you have been handed a
telescope. The sheer shower of stars and
luminous galaxies were always there, but you are awakened to them as abruptly as
an infant’s head emerges from the womb. Suddenly, there is another person in the
room. A tiny, squawking, pink, gooey ruckus
of limbs that right then and there, without a quiver of hesitation, you would
give your life to protect.
There is a ferocity to motherhood that often lies dormant in
the day to day tedium and tasks. But, it
is the life force, the heart that pumps the blood to all those branching veins
of altruism. It is what makes you willing to pull back in the driveway even though you are running late because your
daughter forgot her stuffed ponies on the front porch. It is why you forgo sipping your Chardonnay while
flipping through a fashion magazine to practice spelling words with your second
grader. It is why you are a caffeinated, sleep-deprived,
often weary woman who can’t find the damn car keys, sporting shabby five-year-old
capris from Kohl’s, an old nursing bra, and a ponytail. We are mothers first and everything else
second.
So, thank you, Mom. Thirty-plus
years late and three decades humbled. I watch
you now with my girls and it makes my heart leap and hurt all at once. I recall how tender you always were. How creative and attentive and pure when I
wasn’t capable of appreciating it. With
you at the helm, we made placemats with Con-Tact paper and pressed autumn leaves. We baked cookies with real butter, licked the
beaters, and never once contracted salmonella.
Hell, when it was raining you even got out the finger paint. Something I now avoid as stealthily as those 80-page
tongue-tying Dr. Seuss books.
The truth
is, you’re an extraordinary act to follow.
Mom, here’s the crux of it.
I’m sorry about all those inside-out socks and underwear tangled in pant
legs. I’m sorry about the roast pork I regurgitated
in a napkin after you had devoted five hours to chopping, dicing, and braising.
I’m sorry for the nights I tiptoed down
in search of a sip of water or because my covers were not cooperating or the
shade was not pulled down to the exact perfect spot when all you wanted was 30
minutes to watch Siskel and Ebert. I’m sorry for all the dress shoes that I
insisted felt great in the store, only to whine that they were digging into
my baby toe half-way through church.
I’m
sorry for any and all melodramatic protests that may have occurred when I was
asked to put on a coat or heaven forbid, go pee before leaving the house. I’m sorry for the many times I used your arm sleeve to
smear snot or coughed in your face or spat out my gum in your hand in the
middle of the supermarket because the flavor was completely gone after exactly
three and half minutes. And I’m sorry
for all the times I ran away from you to join my friends and forgot to wave or
even glance backwards.
I’m sorry for all
the dishes you washed, pots you soaked, toilet
paper rolls you replaced, tears you
wiped, Band-Aids you applied, t-shirts you folded, bread you peanut-buttered, carpools you juggled, hugs you administered, and
patience you bestowed without so much as a whisper of gratitude.
I can’t thank you
enough. As your daughter. As your admirer. As now the mother of your granddaughters. Although, I would like to make you that roast pork again and
make sure that this time you get to enjoy it actually sitting down and most
importantly, piping hot.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
