"All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother." -Abraham Lincoln
It's about time my mother gets a post of her own. Not necessarily because she deserves it, but because she demands it.
"How come you write about your father so much but not me," she routinely asks me. Well, there's my 'no mention of living relatives who don't reside in my house' rule. But since my mom broke the mold, I'll break my rule... for her. This once.
There's also the fact that my blog is named Daddy Knows Less, which apparently escapes her. In fact, a lot of things escape her. That's one of the things I love so much about her.
I also love that she's hilarious, often unintentionally. And it's not just because I have to tell her the same things over and over again and then get the same reactions from her over and over again like it's Groundhog Day. No... that's annoying.
|Baby's first Christmas w/Mema|
She's hilarious because the night before that, she asked me if she could "distinguish" her cigarette in a paper bag in my garage. She's so ridiculous sometimes I have no idea what part of her statements I should respond to first. Should I correct her vocabulary or remind her paper can catch fire?
While I can't stand that she smokes, it does provide for some moments of hilarity.
|Sweaty meats are difficult to pronounce|
"It's broccoli rabe, mom."
"We're Italian," she counters. "It's 'brook-la-daab."
I can't help it. It seems I choose to deliberately aggravate her sometimes.
But why do I do it? Did she not hug me enough? No, she hugged me plenty. She didn't pay enough attention to me? I am the youngest of four... so possible.
I also don't want to fall in to the trap of eulogizing her before I absolutely have to. On the rare occasion I pour my heart out to her in a card or on the phone, even she asks, "Am I dying?"
Regardless... because even though she does demand it... she also deserves it.
So here you go mom...
There was a time you were my favorite person in the world. I couldn't get enough of you. I snuggled with you on the couch as a boy, sang to you the soundtrack from "Moonstruck" as you cooked in the kitchen as a teenager, took your side whenever you were in an argument with anyone, anytime. Including dad.
It lasted roughly the first 20 years of my life. I was a bonafide momma's boy. Then that sweet adorable WASP came along and stole my heart. And all I ever hear you say about her is "she's wonderful." Yes, she is.
|My two favorite moms: 12/31/05|
I think you're amazing. You taught me to cook, to love, to care, to shop for the finest ingredients at the lowest price, to be outraged when something costs too much. I think you have shown in the eight plus years since daddy passed away that you are stronger than all four of your children combined.
"Look at my kids," I overheard you say the morning after that horrible night. I could only imagine what you were seeing because a lot of the week that followed is a blur.
"I have to make sure I live a long time so I don't do this to them."
Yes. You do. (Then why do you still smoke?) You are a treasure. Our treasure. The only one we have left. You're our link to our childhood, our past, our fleeting innocence.
The last thing I said to daddy before he died was "thank you." From the beginning of this blog - before your granddaughter was even born - I've written about how much I appreciate that moment. Had I known it would be the last time I ever saw him, I would have said so much more. But I am thankful I at least said that.
In case I don't say it enough... just so you know, mom... I love you. Thank you.