Oh Mom

by E. Marmer
posted May 23, 2018

Oh Mom.

Mommy. My mommy.

You are my mommy to the fullest degree of meaning that term caries. You are the person to whom I can still, at age 56, show melted, back-to-age-four, unfiltered and undefended affection. As an adult I had to pull away, even at times push you away, but I have always, always, secretly, deep down thought of you as my mommy. I have always remembered the softness of your touch, the looks in your eyes, adoration and concern, how much as a young child I wanted your attention the way a camper wants the attention of the pretty head counselor, the one all the girls want to be close to, because that’s how blissful and melodious it was to be in your notice.

from CBC News article by Stephen Smith, posted 5/31/2017

Here you lie, the woman who would come to us after 8 hours of being professional, confident, commanding, and show us her softness, her frustrations and vulnerability, her plea for support. Knowing all I know now about raising a family and running a household, I feel such regret that, only partway formed, I couldn’t show you the support you needed and deserved. You were our superhero, tending to the demands of providing meaningful and effective instruction to developmentally disabled students, then coming home to buy our groceries, cook our meals, teach us skills, tend to our hurts and make my father feel like the head of household we all knew he wasn’t. Did you learn how to do all that from your own mother, or were you just this incredible from birth?

I take your hand, too precious now to squeeze as strongly as I’d like to announce my declaration of two, or even one. So I rest it on my palm, and stroke it, with silent, unworded awareness that this is the hand that diapered me, dressed me, smoothed my hair, caressed my forehead, held me tight, spanked me, washed the dishes in soapy water, pulled the weeds from our walkway garden bed. This is the hand you patiently let me examine as a child, always looking at the rising moons on your nails, your sturdy thick fingers, the ones you gave me, always searching for the tiny freckle on your ring finger that never ceased to delight me. Your hand is the object of my most reverent respect and gratitude.

putyourhearttopaper.com

I spent the first half of my adulthood figuring out Daddy – why he was the way he was, and why that merited my respect, sympathy, and admiration; and the second half I’m now spending on you. I think it had to go that way, because before I had traveled far enough on the spectrum of motherhood I don’t think I could have fully come to understand what you carried, the emotions, the concerns and the responsibilities.

And now having traveled this far I must say, my god Mom, how could anyone else have possibly been as awesome? How could any other mother possibly have guided us with as much love as you did, displayed such unwavering, unconditional positive regard, even while yelling at us sternly and with the most effectively scary expression? How could any mother have shown us why we should respect and adore our father, how we should treat our elders, share with each other, shoulder our responsibilities, conduct ourselves graciously, modestly, as you did unfailingly, and vacuum the carpet in the correct direction to produce a smooth nap? And how could any other mother have hovered over us as nervously, advising us to do things that we’ve pointed out countless time we already know to do, and communicated with her questioning and unasked for suggestions just how much she wanted for us – positive outcomes, happiness, freedom from disappointments.

I’m constantly aware of the miracle of air and take it for granted at the same time.

You have been like the air. And I see now it was the taking for granted that underscored the miracle, the unquestioned presence, the enmeshment, the essentiality. Mommy.