My mother, my self
A couple of weeks ago, I took the day off from work to have lunch with my mom, finish up some holiday shopping, and have dinner with Sharico (I think this was the official kick-off to the eat-everything-under-the-sun-at-every-mealtime season, which will undoubtedly continue through Sunday). It was a lovely day, not too cold; I got all the toys on the list for my nieces and nephews; I wasn't at work; Shari and I got to catch up over a yummy dinner. And I hung out with my mom.
As I've written here before, I have a fairly uncomplicated relationship with my mom, blessedly. And the older I get, the more she surprises me and the more I grow to appreciate her. We just had the best day together -- I picked her up at her home so she could show off her Christmas decorations, which I think she's still a little uncertain about, this being their first Christmas in the new place without a boatload of moving cartons everywhere.
Just as we were getting ready to leave, my dad called -- he had been out getting a haircut, and was going to lunch with a friend -- and suggested that we meet up in a parking lot halfway between our destinations, just so he could say hi and give me a hug. I wasn't sure, at first, whether that was adorable or just plain weird, but I've settled on adorable, because I enjoy my dad's random bouts of affection.
Anyway, after our little parking lot rendezvous, my mom and I had lunch at this super-nice restaurant where she and my sister always go, but I for some reason have never been. And we ate and ate and ate and ate, from the butternut squash soup to the apple tart with fresh whipped cream, and we talked and talked and talked and talked, about everything: about her siblings, about my siblings; about her mom and dad and how we both miss them so much during the holidays; about my job, and how glad she felt that her job for most of her life was raising her kids, and how life is so different for women of my generation and her grandkids' generation; about depression and divorce; about making a marriage work for 45 years and counting; about her conviction that Matthew McConaughey has "real sex appeal," and my determination that that was really an overshare, and also that she would feel differently after reading that People magazine article.
After lunch, we went to the grocery store for her dinner party that Friday; she was having her brothers and her favorite cousin and their spouses over, and the table was already set on Wednesday, because my mom is a planner and a preparer. She was fretting over a contingency plan if the predicted snow developed late in the day, but in the meantime was intent on getting the pork loin and other accoutrements for the party, which I later found out started at 4 and ended by 7:30, which I guess is what happens when you're 66 and the youngest person of the bunch, but it made me a little sad.
Anyway, it made me disproportionately happy to be at the grocery store with my mom, because it brought back floods of memories from all stages of life: riding in the front of the cart and snacking on raisins as a kid; sullenly walking alongside my mom while getting the regular shopping done in junior high; my sisters and I divvying up the list and fanning out in different directions to get ready for a big holiday meal; running in to pick up a last-minute balloon or card or flower arrangement for a birthday or celebration.
This last one is the one that really struck me as we finished up the shopping -- declaring the tomatoes "no good" and heading through the card-and-flower section on our way from the produce aisle to the check-out. It was in that exact spot that, a million years ago, my mom laughed at me, and possibly changed my life. It's probably overly dramatic, but we were in the same place five and a half years ago, getting a card or a plant or something on the my sister's med school graduation, and I remarked that it was almost my anniversary with my then-boyfriend. And my mom said, "How many years is this?" and I told her it was four years, and she laughed.
And she tried to stifle it, and she said, "I'm sorry; it's just: four years? It's kind of...I don't know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed".
And it didn't happen right in that moment, but it stuck with me, and I realized the thing that most 22-year-olds hate realizing, which is that my mother was right, about my boyfriend, of all things. I wasn't going to change; he wasn't going to change; we weren't going to get married; we were just plugging along because it was what we knew how to do. And it took my mother laughing at me in Kings for me to realize it and do something about it.
Anyway, after the grocery store, we hit Learning Express for gifts for my nieces and nephews, and then just chatted some more at my parents' place (for so long that my dad came back from his lunch date, rendering the adorable parking lot meetup somewhat unnecessary), where I feel remarkably at home. I was so sad when my parents were moving, thinking I'd feel a huge loss, not having "my room" anymore; not having the kitchen table around which we'd sat for so many years; not having the pool in the summertime. But my siblings and I all, I think, have found that the new place feels just as much like home, even though we don't all fit around the new kitchen table, and we're glad that our parents are happily in a smaller place where they don't have to shovel the snow or take care of the pool.
I think that it hits me every once in a while that my parents won't be around forever. They're both healthy, thank goodness, and they both seem young for people in their mid-60s -- they're active and they have millions of friends. I hope that they are around for ages and ages, that they'll be healthy until ripe old ages, that they'll know their great-grandchildren at least as long as I knew my own grandparents. But in the meantime, and for a lifetime, I am going to treasure these lazy afternoons, observing the small moments that make my parents my parents: sorting through Christmas cards that have arrived in the day's mail; squabbling over whether a remote control for their gas fireplace is a necessity (mom) or a wasteful indulgence that fosters laziness (dad); offering to get the other a drink or a snack; exchanging hugs and kisses or holding hands for no reason other than that they're in love still after 45 years of marriage; hanging out with the daughter they're officially done raising, but still worrying and caring and offering advice at every turn, laughing with her -- or at her -- when she needs it most.
As I've written here before, I have a fairly uncomplicated relationship with my mom, blessedly. And the older I get, the more she surprises me and the more I grow to appreciate her. We just had the best day together -- I picked her up at her home so she could show off her Christmas decorations, which I think she's still a little uncertain about, this being their first Christmas in the new place without a boatload of moving cartons everywhere.
Just as we were getting ready to leave, my dad called -- he had been out getting a haircut, and was going to lunch with a friend -- and suggested that we meet up in a parking lot halfway between our destinations, just so he could say hi and give me a hug. I wasn't sure, at first, whether that was adorable or just plain weird, but I've settled on adorable, because I enjoy my dad's random bouts of affection.
Anyway, after our little parking lot rendezvous, my mom and I had lunch at this super-nice restaurant where she and my sister always go, but I for some reason have never been. And we ate and ate and ate and ate, from the butternut squash soup to the apple tart with fresh whipped cream, and we talked and talked and talked and talked, about everything: about her siblings, about my siblings; about her mom and dad and how we both miss them so much during the holidays; about my job, and how glad she felt that her job for most of her life was raising her kids, and how life is so different for women of my generation and her grandkids' generation; about depression and divorce; about making a marriage work for 45 years and counting; about her conviction that Matthew McConaughey has "real sex appeal," and my determination that that was really an overshare, and also that she would feel differently after reading that People magazine article.
After lunch, we went to the grocery store for her dinner party that Friday; she was having her brothers and her favorite cousin and their spouses over, and the table was already set on Wednesday, because my mom is a planner and a preparer. She was fretting over a contingency plan if the predicted snow developed late in the day, but in the meantime was intent on getting the pork loin and other accoutrements for the party, which I later found out started at 4 and ended by 7:30, which I guess is what happens when you're 66 and the youngest person of the bunch, but it made me a little sad.
Anyway, it made me disproportionately happy to be at the grocery store with my mom, because it brought back floods of memories from all stages of life: riding in the front of the cart and snacking on raisins as a kid; sullenly walking alongside my mom while getting the regular shopping done in junior high; my sisters and I divvying up the list and fanning out in different directions to get ready for a big holiday meal; running in to pick up a last-minute balloon or card or flower arrangement for a birthday or celebration.
This last one is the one that really struck me as we finished up the shopping -- declaring the tomatoes "no good" and heading through the card-and-flower section on our way from the produce aisle to the check-out. It was in that exact spot that, a million years ago, my mom laughed at me, and possibly changed my life. It's probably overly dramatic, but we were in the same place five and a half years ago, getting a card or a plant or something on the my sister's med school graduation, and I remarked that it was almost my anniversary with my then-boyfriend. And my mom said, "How many years is this?" and I told her it was four years, and she laughed.
And she tried to stifle it, and she said, "I'm sorry; it's just: four years? It's kind of...I don't know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed".
And it didn't happen right in that moment, but it stuck with me, and I realized the thing that most 22-year-olds hate realizing, which is that my mother was right, about my boyfriend, of all things. I wasn't going to change; he wasn't going to change; we weren't going to get married; we were just plugging along because it was what we knew how to do. And it took my mother laughing at me in Kings for me to realize it and do something about it.
Anyway, after the grocery store, we hit Learning Express for gifts for my nieces and nephews, and then just chatted some more at my parents' place (for so long that my dad came back from his lunch date, rendering the adorable parking lot meetup somewhat unnecessary), where I feel remarkably at home. I was so sad when my parents were moving, thinking I'd feel a huge loss, not having "my room" anymore; not having the kitchen table around which we'd sat for so many years; not having the pool in the summertime. But my siblings and I all, I think, have found that the new place feels just as much like home, even though we don't all fit around the new kitchen table, and we're glad that our parents are happily in a smaller place where they don't have to shovel the snow or take care of the pool.
I think that it hits me every once in a while that my parents won't be around forever. They're both healthy, thank goodness, and they both seem young for people in their mid-60s -- they're active and they have millions of friends. I hope that they are around for ages and ages, that they'll be healthy until ripe old ages, that they'll know their great-grandchildren at least as long as I knew my own grandparents. But in the meantime, and for a lifetime, I am going to treasure these lazy afternoons, observing the small moments that make my parents my parents: sorting through Christmas cards that have arrived in the day's mail; squabbling over whether a remote control for their gas fireplace is a necessity (mom) or a wasteful indulgence that fosters laziness (dad); offering to get the other a drink or a snack; exchanging hugs and kisses or holding hands for no reason other than that they're in love still after 45 years of marriage; hanging out with the daughter they're officially done raising, but still worrying and caring and offering advice at every turn, laughing with her -- or at her -- when she needs it most.
1 Comments:
I absolutely adore it and you when you write pieces like this.
It almost makes up for the Ms. PacMan incidents...
Almost...
By
Smelmooo, at 11:31 AM
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