Mama

"A daughter is a mother’s gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self. And mothers are their daughters’ role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships."

Happy Mother's Day to my kind-hearted, sweet, quiet, thoughtful, wonderful mama. She taught me to appreciate funny, outdoorsy men who actually help around the house, the exciting world of books & reading (I became a writer thanks, in part, to her), short hair, the value of a secret (though this lesson was a hard one for me), comfortable shoes, chowmein hot dish, the beauty of minimal (usually silver) jewelry, antiques (though not her creepy dolls with the real hair, cracked faces and little white teeth), shopping for good deals, and Hall & Oates. We have the same opinions about religion, politics, certain family members, and Gena Davis (she bugs us). I turn my back while changing in the locker room because I am modest, just like she is. I clear my throat like she does. I have her hair color, skin tone, long fingers, and monkey feet. We like the same books, movies (romantic comedies and Victorian or Renaissance -era flicks), music (we saw Prince together in concert and it was my mom who actually got me hooked on the Dixie Chicks), and food (nothing too exotic or spicy). We both prefer white wine over red, classic over trendy, Robert Redford over George Clooney. We laugh easily when we're together. There are never awkward moments between us. I have never felt annoyed by her, or frustrated, and if we've ever been in a fight, it must've been something silly, because I can't remember it now.
She taught me to have an open mind. "Never use the hurtful word fat," she'd comment. “Say overweight.” She told my brothers not to make fun of overweight kids, rationalizing: “Do you think they want to be overweight? Do you think they wouldn’t give anything to have your metabolism and wear the same size you wear? Do you think they wouldn’t trade places with you in a heartbeat if it meant they could be skinny?” She taught me to accept everyone—no matter their age, race, religion, or sexual orientation. She’d say things like, “Why do people think homosexuality is a choice? Why would you choose a life that’s full of obstacles, a life that's not socially acceptable? That doesn't make any sense.” She taught me that it's not OK when a man talks down to a woman. That if you respect your significant other, you won't degrade them. Ever.
I realized, for the first time, how much I leaned on her when I was a freshman in college suffering from my first (and only) migraine headache, lying in my dark dorm room with a wet washcloth on my forehead (after running down the hall to puke in the community bathroom). At that moment I wanted her there with me. I wanted her cold, soothing hands on my throbbing forehead. I wanted her to calm me with the reassuring phrase that everything would be OK. If growing up meant being sick and alone (and taking care of myself), I didn’t want to grow up. I wanted to stay safe in her world forever.
I wish my mom could see herself as others see her. She's too hard on herself about her weight, her job, her social skills. (She says she's envious of my outgoing personality; while I'm envious of her ability to refrain from gossip and not insert Foot In Mouth). She's so incredibly MODEST, about her natural good looks, her intelligence, her witty sense of humor, her patience, her independent attitude, her strong feminist ideals. There are few people who have that kind of modesty today. She's not only modest, she's a genuinely good person—one of the kindest souls I know—constantly doing for others, never looking for anything in return. Add to her list: good listener, advice-giver, travel companion, cook, gardener, and home-decorator. She's equally adored as a wife, daughter, sister, mom, mother-in-law, grandma, friend and coworker. I know because I've been told as much by my relatives.
My relationship with her entered a whole new level after I became a mom myself. There's this new intensity that comes along with sharing the experience of motherhood. I understand and appreciate the sacrifices she made for us, and I feel this connection with her over how much we love Adam. She doesn't try to tell me what to do, or make me feel guilty, or criticize my mothering skills. She is sincere and positive, supporting me, and taking care of me (all new moms need to be mothered a little), and offering up constructive suggestions—but only when asked for advice. There are so many reasons she's not only my mom, but my friend ... I only hope I can do as good a job raising my children as my mom did raising her own.