There is a little bit of a joke between my mom and me regarding my memory. On occasion, she will bring up a memory and I'll have no idea what she is talking about. I don't usually deny that it actually happened, but it's just not part of MY memory. And no, it's not dementia.
My mom is 70 years old today. She was born in 1951-back in the middle of the last century. Do you know her? How long have you known her? Whether you've met her briefly or have known her for years, I am sure your memories of her are quite different than mine.
I don't remember that day in May when she married my dad. I don't remember when she turned 25 and was able to feel those first tiny kicks of life inside of her. I don't remember that November day when I entered her life, lumpy head and all, and she held me in her arms. I don't remember when my sister was born, or when my brother was born and we became a family of five.
I think my earliest memory of my mom was sitting in the sun in our driveway, at our old house in Clio. She, of course, was in a lounge chair, and I was in a regular folding chair. I was small enough then for our black lab, Sam, to climb right up onto my lap and curl up. I must've been only four years old, but I was big enough to not need a nap while my brother and sister slept that afternoon. I also remember our dog, Chip, who would disappear for hours, just to return with random pieces of animals he had caught, much to my horror.
I wouldn't say my mom is crafty, per se, but when my sister and I were little, she'd make us matching outfits. One year for Easter, I remember my mom made us blue sundresses with red cherries on them. They tied at the shoulders and were perfectly pleated and I thought there was nothing better!
I remember when we moved to Muskegon and my mom had the unpleasant task of cleaning out the rotting food in the refrigerator the day we arrived. I felt awful that we had just arrived at our new home and this was the first thing she had to do. In no time, though, she had that whole place spic and span. We lived right on Lake Michigan and on stormy nights I remember running through the dark to their room where all five of us would huddle together under the covers.
We only lived in Muskegon for less than a year, but I remember so much about living there. I was in first grade, and I would often hide among the trees on my long walk down our driveway to the bus stop. I'd miss the bus on purpose, hoping I wouldn't have to go to school at all that day. But mom would find me, pack up the other kids, and haul me off to school. I also brought home the chicken pox that year, and I know we had mom at her limits, as she tried to keep us all from picking and scratching at the red bumps. That winter, our bird, Theo, died, too. We buried him on the property and put a little wooden cross over the site, and I just thought it was the saddest thing ever.
And then, after a short time back in Clio, we were on the move again. This time, the move would be permanent. Flushing greeted us with open arms, and while my siblings and I were off at school, mom would lounge in the sun with her neighbor, Tammy. Even on not-so-warm days, those two could be found on the side of the house, where the wind was blocked, soaking up any available sun. Okay, so maybe she did a little more than lounge in the sun all day. I remember that the house was always clean, the laundry was always folded and put away, and dinner was on the table every night. Well, almost every night. Sometimes, if we were lucky, mom and I could convince my dad to take us all to Chi-Chi's on Friday night for dinner.
On Sunday mornings, after much chaos, we'd somehow all make it into the car and on our way to church. Mom would always tell my sister and I to pinch our cheeks to put some color into them. <sigh> After church, we'd head to my grandparents' house. My grandma made a feast to feed the masses every Sunday afternoon, and my mom would show up and just start cleaning. She could turn an explosion of a kitchen into something much more manageable in no time flat. Those Sundays were the best. My grandpa would grill chicken and sneak puffs on his pipe, while we played frisbee in the backyard. Neighbors and friends were always stopping over on those afternoons, and they'd stay for dinner or bring dessert and everyone was welcome.
And then there was the time my mom became a dog midwife for a day. She found herself home alone as our dog, Meg, started to give birth. Dogs know what to do, right? Not this dog. When the first puppy came out, still fully encased in its sack, Meg gave that thing a sniff, covered it with newspaper and walked away. Thankfully my mom had educated herself, and she stepped right in to tear open that sack and rub the puppy until it began breathing. The next puppy? Same thing. Eek! Finally, by the third puppy's arrival, Meg knew what to do and my mom's duties were over. Meg went on to have a total of nine puppies, but the outcome would've been much different if my mom hadn't known what to do!
By the late 1980's, my siblings and I were into sports and instruments and youth group at church. Dinnertime became a bit more challenging. Wednesdays, I remember, were particularly hectic, when I had to be picked up from basketball practice with just enough time to get to catechism class. Mom would always have a grilled cheese wrapped in tinfoil for me to eat on the way. Did it taste like metal? Yes it did. Did I eat it? Every time.
I think maybe she knew those sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil left a little to be desired, but she made up for it. She's been known to make my sister and me pancakes after 10pm at the cabin, after rousing games of Rack-O or Bananagrams, or Rummy Tile. If you haven't had pancakes after a long day at the lake, you're missing out.
As we grew, our "extra-curricular activities" expanded a bit further, and my mom was game, on occasion, to actually drive my friends and me to TP houses late at night. I think she might have taken us the next morning a couple of times to clean up said TP when we got caught...
Speaking of extra-curricular activities, my mom never missed them. She was a regular in the stands for basketball, volleyball, softball, baseball, track, Taekwondo, musicals, plays, and concerts. If you ask her about her most memorable moments, ranking near the top would be two events. The first event was parents' night for volleyball. On this night, parents walk their players out to center court and are introduced to the crowd. My sister, the jokester that she is, submitted my parents' names as Gwen and Peter. Let it be known that a vast number of spectators knew my parents, but somehow the announcer did not. As my parents and sister made their way onto the court and the announcer introduced Melissa, daughter of Gwen and Peter, the crowd erupted in laughter. The second event happened at one of my basketball games. There had been a discussion circulating among the parents about tattoos and who had them. This was was the early 1990's, before tattoos were as commonplace as they are now. My mom had told people that she had a butterfly tattoo on her behind. Most of us knew this was a joke, but a few weren't quite sure if it was true or not. One night, a man walked up to her in the stands and asked if she was my mom. Her reply? "Yes, did you want to see my butterfly tattoo?" Then the man introduced himself as a college basketball scout. To say my mom wanted to go through the floor and disappear forever would be an understatement.
My mom went back to work when I was in high school, too. On top of juggling three active teenagers, she managed the office at King Par, too. In retrospect, she was kind of like a mom to a lot of people there. She took care of everything and kept the whole operation running smoothly. Even then, dinner was on the table every night.
In college my mom and my dad rarely missed a game of mine. First, they followed me all over the state of Michigan, from Detroit to Alpena. Then, they followed me all over the east coast. From southern West Virginia to New York State, my parents were there in the stands. And when they weren't visiting me, they were in Ohio visiting my brother or in the UP visiting my sister. Even when she couldn't visit, she was always sending care packages or putting $10 in my bank account. I knew, no matter what, I could count on her.
And then, in a blink, half a century was over. The year she turned 50, I got married. A couple years later, Melissa got married. And my brother, Geoff, was finishing college and finding his own path, too. Her kids were grown. What now? I'll tell you what: GRANDKIDS. It went like this: Owen: 2003, Emerson: 2005, Avery and Reid entered the scene upon Melissa's marriage to Thom in 2007, Greyson: 2007, Braden: 2008, Alayna, Adyson, & Julia: 2009, Nash: 2012. In nine years, Melissa and I birthed eight babies. My mom was there for all of it. She was standing just outside the door when I was in labor, and saw my doctor come running down the hall and into my room, making it just in time for Owen's arrival. She was there, literally watching, as I pushed out my black-haired girl, Emerson. She was there, for so long, as I struggled to push out Greyson, and celebrated the surprise of "It's a BOY!" She was there, in the hall as Melissa loudly labored for Braden's birth. She was there, as once again my doctor came running down the hall and made it just in time to catch my sweet bald-headed Alayna. She was there, holding my two week old girl as we waited for Melissa's twins-TWINS!-to be be delivered via cesarean section, and peered into their tiny crib at those sweet faces as they were wheeled past us in the hospital hallway. She was there when my Nash came in such a hurry that I almost didn't make it into a hospital bed.
She is still there. She is there for all of the big things: baseball games and cheerleading and basketball games and dance recitals and choir concerts and robotics competitions, birthday parties and awards nights. But you know what? She is there for so many little things, too. She gets tough stains out of our clothes, she can put the drawstring back in a hoodie, she cleans the inside of my trash can when I'm not looking, she pulls random weeds in my yard, she takes my grandma grocery shopping and to doctor appointments, she shows up with homemade raspberry jam, she always has my kids' favorite treats when they visit, she keeps a running log of every single thing that happens at the cabin-from upkeep to visitors, she lets my dad come to our house for days and days to help out with our endless projects. And even when there's nothing left to do, she wonders what else she can do.
These days, when she laughs at the things I don't remember, I just smile. I smile because I know that I remember the important things. I remember her on her happiest, carefree days, and I remember her on the days she didn't know how she would even make it through. I remember the worst nights-the nights she's stayed awake, worrying about a sick child or grandchild or parent or family member or friend. I remember the funny times, like when she'd hold one of my babies and eat El Charrito's and inevitably spill a bit of food between her plate and her mouth and have to wipe it off of their face! I remember the best times, like when we stand on the dock, using every last worm to catch fish-any fish-and how she'll often sing to them in hopes that'll persuade them to take a bite. Or even better, when she agrees to do things she's not sure she can do. How many people do you know that would even attempt to climb a mountain at age 69? It might have taken everything she had in her, but my mom climbed that mountain and I was there for every step of it.
My mom is 70 years old today. I've had the privilege of having her in my life for nearly 45 years now. My memories may fade, and some things I will never recollect, but my mom? She is unforgettable.
