So a couple of days ago I had the opportunity to witness something very emotional. One of my friends at work has a couple of kids one of which she described as the boy she has "guardianship" over. No, I do not know what that means. I'm not one to pry and ask questions about such statements, but I mention it nonetheless due to the fact that it is a very important statement regarding the story I am about to tell. See, I have never heard this woman describe her boy as anything other than her "son," but the idea of "guardianship" gives an added context to what was said (well, actually text) to her. The fact that this was a text adds even more context. An impersonal form of delivery containing an emotional message very quickly becomes personal, due to the fact that something so meaningful to one can be delivered as almost an afterthought to the other.
Siting behind the counter, Amanda pulled out her cell phone and stared at it for a moment. The peachy color of her Caucasian skin slowly faded to pink (a fact that I am fairly certain escapes her). It took a few wandering moments of thought for her to finally let out some inaudible gasp resembling an "Awww." It was a few more moments before she offered up the explination, " The boy that I have guardianship over just sent me a text saying 'I'm glad you're my mom'." While her eyes were tearing up, my mind was thinking of my own family.
To further compound my thoughts, I was, at the time, reading "The Story of Oklahoma City" by Angelo C. Scott. Perhaps it was by design that the chapter I was on was one rather misplaced within the book. Sandwiched between tales of social upheaval and political turmoil was a chapter regarding the Pioneer Women, and detailing the vast differences between the Farm Pioneers and the Town Pioneers. Scott describes an old log cabin complete with a leaking roof where the mother would have the children huddled under an umbrella inside the house, alone, cold and wet as the father was off hunting, trading or selling goods for months at a time, and how this woman would fend off, as he put it (his words not mine), "wild Indians" not with the barrel of a rifle, but with all the food she could find in the house to make for them. He described how this woman would wake from deep sleep by the fainest of cries from one of her children. After detailing the characteristics of the Pioneer Farm Woman, Scott explained that he knew this because he was writing about his own mother.
Perfect time for these two stories to be brought before me. And it wasn't just my own mother that I thought of. For the past few days I have been revisiting the importance of all my family members over and over. My mom, dad, stepfather, stepmother(s), in-laws, grandparents, and of course, my wife and child. My family isn't overly large, nor is it especially close, but the importance of each individual member, and their influence upon my life cannot be overstated.
As I say, it wasn't about just my mom, but for the importance of organization and focus, I will center this blog post on that wonderful woman that for some reason puts up with me, even when I happen to make a fool of myself (which is quite often).
NOW THEN... I must digress for a moment. Here is a message for my son:
Zander, I hope that one day these words make it to you, because I want you to understand something. I realize that in your world, Daddy has always existed, but believe it or not, Daddy was once nothing more than a helpless, vulnerable, innocent little child, swaddled in a blanket and brought home from a hospital, not unlike yourself. To me, your grandparents have always existed. I do not know a world that exists without them, because to me, THEY are Mom and Dad. Make no mistake, they too were once a rugby football sized mass of hope and expectation innocently swaddled in a blanket. And perhaps, eventually, the same kind of topsy-turvy moment will happen for you, and you might then understand the importance of that vulnerability.
Now, then... on with the show:
There is a picture out there, somewhere on the interwebs. I dare not give direction to this picture's location. I am sworn to secrecy, the violation of which promises pain and death. You see, my wife hates this picture, but I think it is fantastic. Imagine an exhausted new mother, hibernating for a few rare and precious moments with a tiny infant in her arms and a watchful canine cuddled with both of them. Apparently women dislike slumbering pictures of their frazzled selves, regardless of how cute everyone else thinks it is. And this picture is magnificently cute. The charming nature of this photo is rivaled only by another involving a different mother-son-dog combo. There is a picture taken long before the digital age of photography and buried somewhere in a old photo album (thus difficult to locate when the album itself is buried in a storage unit somewhere in Midwest City). This other picture had my mom asleep on the couch, clutching MY cabbage patch doll, with the dog at her feet and me, when I was just a little tike, passed out on top of her. I'm fairly certain that just about every mother at one point or another gets caught in such a position with the evidence recorded for posterity.
And that is just one of many fantastic moments shared by this woman and myself. Oh, sure, there were plenty of conflicts between us. What five-year-old hasn't threatened to run away from home? Most make it to the corner of the street... I made it all the way to the end of the porch. And what five-year-old hasn't waddled back to their room, crying, with a flyswatter stricken behind, calling out between sobs, "God... please... kill... her!" (Oh, get over it... I didn't really want my mom dead... I was fuckin' FIVE!!!) Conflicts later in life were perhaps less dramatic, but no less intense. Hell, that's the way things go. Life isn't like Pleasantville before Toby Maguire and Reese Witherspoon showed up. Anyone who claims to have the perfect relationship with their parents is a liar. But make no mistake, when we slammed our doors in our mohers' faces claiming "You don't understand me!!!" we were wrong. We were so wrong, because they understood us better than we will ever know.
My mom was the woman who first made the observation that if I sit in a restaurant long enough I will eat everything on my plate, regardless of how much food is left when I say, "I'm done." She was the one who would sit with me after school and watch Boy Meets World and the Lizzie McGuire Show on the Disney Channel, regardless of the fact that the Lizzie MaGuire Show was tailored for the 7-12 year old girl demographic and I was a senior in high school. But probably the best memory I have so far, is from when I graduated from Air Force Basic Training. The day after graduation, we were given a town pass, and my mother (and step-father) found a theater in San Antonio that was still showing Godzilla 2000. She knew how important it was to me and how much I was looking forward to this release. This was the first North American release of a Toho produced Godzilla film since Godzilla 1985, and she even sent me newspaper clippings about the release while I was in Basic Training. To her credit, she and my step-father sat through 99 minutes of spectacular Japanese awesomeness... just for me.
The point is that no matter what kinds of disagreements, arguments, irritations, or any other uncomfortable situations arise between us, I always appreciate her, and I'm glad she's my mom.
So if you see this blog, I hope that you will take that woman in your life, hug her a little bit tighter during this holiday season (or any other time of the year, for that matter) and simply tell her, "I'm glad you're my mom."
No comments:
Post a Comment