I looked at him to see if he was showing signs of fever or delirium. “This kid’s ogling over mom’s picture is seriously cutting into our playtime,” I thought. Anytime now, mom is going to come in here and demand that I “do something,” which is to say that she will assign some chore and will demand that it be done right now!
“Let’s go! You don’t know that woman like I do! She makes me work, and stuff! Come on…!”
I knew if we got out of sight quickly, mom would somehow forget that we were alive and wouldn't assign us chores. The back door was just around the corner and Saturday was still young.
It was always presumed from an early age that everyone's mom but mine was kind, never yelled, let their kids eat lots of candy, fixed them bologna sandwiches with Wonder Bread, and most of all– didn't make them do chores. My mom was the antithesis of all those things.
The age of innocence, I figure, goes from about age one to 11 or 12. The age of pure, transcendental knowledge, where one knows all there is to know and is unable to press any more knowledge into their minds, goes from around 13 to 22. From 22 years old onward, we are free to be genuinely mature and wise, unfettered by the buffetings of adolescence. Thus, now, in my wizened, middle age–free from the brash and crass ideologies of youth–I recognize now that I have one of the greatest mothers on the planet.
Mom was relatively short. Her hair was jet-black and she usually styled it to about shoulder length. She was usually happy and smiled often. Piss her off, though, and she was as ferocious as a mother bear.
Growing up in mom’s home, I ate well, was encouraged to be clean, and taught to respect my elders. But those are givens–they are the basic expectations of any mother.
Sitting in mom’s living room recently, I asked her if she had any misgivings about her life thus far. Because I know mom well, I knew she would give me a straight answer. She has always seen the world in black and white. She is incapable of lying in any form. She can't even tell a decent white lie, and that's the truth! As a child, that drove me crazy. As an adult, I admit, it is one of her greatest virtues. Choked up and unable to speak for a few moments, she finally said, amidst the tears, “I wish I would’ve been a better mother.”
She didn’t elaborate and I didn’t press her. That short sentence was most likely the utterance that represented years of suppressed remorse of lost opportunities and chances for 'do-overs - invariable in the raising of eight kids. Chickens come home to roost...
Fact is, to have her admit to administering injustices during my youth would be, of itself, a type of injustice, and I wanted to avoid that. There is an imaginary threshold in our existence. If some questions have not already been answered by a certain point, then they can't be raised again. What useful purpose would it serve?
Truth is–I turned out just fine in spite of those few occurrences that, at the time, seemed unjust. I got too many beatings with wooden spoons, coat hangers, belts, and open hands. Sometimes mom yelled, screamed, and told me I was a ‘little shit.’ She forced me to eat fried chicken and tossed salad when all I wanted was a couple peanut butter sandwiches! She drafted me onto a chain-gang every Saturday until I convinced her that those chores she assigned me were completely finished to her specifications.
“Well, you wake up in the mornin', you hear the work bell ring, But you better not complain, boy, you get in trouble with the man.” And, mom was the Man! Life was tough!
The problem with most of us is not that we aren't appreciative, it’s that we don’t express our appreciation enough. We go through life, often not knowing if, or when, we have profound influence on people nor us on them. Why? Because social paradigms insist that we not invade another person's space–and it takes bravery to get explicit in our true feelings for one another–even with our parents.
Mother’s Day just passed. I reflected on the years I've known my mother, Birdie. I mused that she probably was not cognizant of her profound influence on me. Even if she was, because of her latent, motherly complexes, she might dwell too much on those few beatings she gave long ago that I didn't deserve, rather than all the positive influence she had on me.
Mom probably doesn't know that, long ago, I forgave her of any injustices. Now I dwell on the present, and the present is good. The present is full of fond memories.
The fog of memory hangs over those brief, fleeting traces of recollection when I was a mere toddler. Mom held me on her lap when I had earaches. Her silky nightgown and soft, motherly touch brought comfort and solitude to an otherwise wretchedly, painful experience.
Mom stood up for me when the bullies, including Mikey, became overwhelming and she could tell that I needed help. Her fierce protection and sharp words drove off many foes when the odds were greatly against me.
She gave me mush for breakfast and made sure that I got my fair share of toast heels. That was Mikey’s and my favorite piece of bread each morning. Many fights ensued on whose turn it was to get those.
Mom tucked me into bed each night and told me stories. She taught me to pray and made me know that there is a God in heaven who loves me, albeit, He is mad when I do something wrong.
There is no replacement for my mother. She was present when I grew up. She was home when I was home. She made cookies and hot bread. She loved me.
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