If your mom is still with you, do me a favor. Sit on the pew with her next Sunday. You can bet if it were possible, I’d be sitting with mine. Especially on Mother’s Day. I’d go so far as to insist on wearing a red rose corsage and I’d make sure she had a rose of the appropriate color, too. It goes without saying that if your family is not a churchgoing lot, you’re not excused. Sit with her for Sunday dinner, whether at a crowded restaurant or a simple dining table. You might skip the corsage, but not the time with her. In fact, don’t even worry about whether it’s a Sunday. Just sit with her somewhere sometime. But do it sooner than later.
A phone call will work in a pinch but make it sincere and make it often. As a mom of two grown daughters, I’m absolutely qualified to make the rules, and I’m telling you, it is in your best interest to remember who gave you life and it’s advisable to honor that selfless sacrifice with your presence and time as often as possible. I don’t care if you’re three states away or three doors down, call your mom. If she’s busy, she’ll call you back.
It’s more than just the sacrifice of bringing you home as a baby that merits your mom’s admiration. She actually lived with you day in and day out. Never mind changing smelly diapers, the real mettle test was leaving you crying in the school door as you begged her not to leave. You have no idea how much longer those days were for her than for you. She earned her stars scouting out cow killer ants for your insect collection and relearning long division so she could help with homework assignments. Cow killer ants are terrifying, I can tell you. I seem to recall only collecting butterflies when I was the same age but maybe that’s because my mom was behind the scenes with the cow killers, as well.
A lot of behind the scenes work goes on in a mom’s life, which you would be well advised to remember. My mom chose to stay at home with us, which is what most 1960’s moms did, preparing home-cooked meals and ensuring a spotless existence for us. She packed a peanut butter sandwich and Cheetos in my Barbie lunchbox each day and sent me off to school worry free. That was then. I worked full-time during my young mom years, which didn’t ensure home-cooked meals or a spotless existence. My girls enjoyed plastic wrapped Lunchables containing ingredients and a fat content I will not read to this day. And they will not eat them to this day.
For my early school years, my mom kept a “School Years” scrapbook that was designed with places to list best friends, activities, achievements, and school pictures from each year. At the bottom of the page for each school grade was a place for the child to check what he or she hoped to “be” eventually. Girls stayed in one column—the one listing Nurse, Teacher, Airline Stewardess, or Mother—while the boys could choose from Policeman, Fireman, Doctor, or Lawyer. Father was not an option. I was always sorely tempted to choose airline stewardess, but my heart led me to select mother. At that time, the option to be both a mother and an airline stewardess violated a rule of nature, so it never crossed my mind to check both. And perish the thought that I might be a lawyer or doctor. Another rule of nature.
And honestly, if I could be even a portion of the mother my mom was to me, that was a pretty lofty goal. I also liked the staying at home part while everybody else went to work or school. I could just imagine watching Captain Kangaroo from start to finish each day, followed by the Beverly Hillbillies, and then a nap.
Some people lose their moms far too early. Some have mothers who are just not there even when they are. I’m painfully aware that my chance for a charmed childhood and saint of a mother can only occur in the dreams of some, which makes me incredibly thankful for all that I’ve been given and very sad for those who can’t enjoy that.
When my brother and I met with the pastor who was to officiate my mother’s funeral, he asked a pretty blunt question. “Tell me what your mother was to you.” My brother was the first to respond. “Home.” How very simple. Home. A simple word for a simple woman who was our world. For us, home was not a place. It was a person. And I couldn’t add to that, so I just agreed. I love words, but that one word says it all for us.
The dictionary defines a mother as “a female parent,” and also “a woman in authority.” Yes to both. I’ve probably set a pretty poor example in some ways in that I just may be too determined. The mom in the Big Fat Greek Wedding movie advises her daughter that the man may be the head of the house, but the woman is the neck. She turns the head any way she wants it to go. That’s probably a bit too far along the relationship pendulum, as moms and dads really should parent jointly, with unique roles for both. And I’m absolutely in awe of those who handle that job singlehandedly. The point is that most moms are definitely in authority so it’s best if you respect yours.
On the last day I saw my mom, she had been placed in rehab for what should have been just a few days, after a hip fracture. I bought her some brand new navy blue Keds for her therapy and supplied her drawer with nightgowns and magazines. As I turned to leave, I asked her what else she might need, and sitting on the side of that hospital bed, she gestured around at what I had brought and said, “Nothing. You just go on. You’ve done enough.”
I know what she meant, and I truly hope I had done enough to make her life pleasant, not only on that day but on all her days, but what I thought a while later was that it was she who had actually done enough. She had given us a home in every way. We still needed her, but she had already passed the excellent mom test.
The next night we talked on the phone about her upcoming therapy and my plans to join her for lunch. At the end of the conversation, she said “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And I know that I will.
So, wherever you are, take time to sit on the pew with your mom. Or just join her anywhere. And don’t even worry about the corsage.
