My Reason For Everything

     A few months ago my boyfriend’s mother sadly passed away, just shy of her 90^th birthday.  In watching him go through his grieving process, I started thinking about my own mother, and how I should probably prepare myself. I am not going to put “prepare for what” at the end of that sentence because I can’t say it out loud.  My Mom is my EVERYTHING. I cannot fathom a world without her. A wonderful era will sadly be over, and that is so hard to think about.  When I hear about other people losing their mothers, including my boyfriend, I distance myself, thinking this: their mothers were quite old, they’ve been sick for awhile, they are going to a better place, they are at peace now, they will be reunited with their husbands in heaven, etc. But if I internalize it, try to put myself in their place, imagine the unimaginable--that it’s my mother--well, none of those things matter. This is my Mom, the best person I know. She is not allowed to get sick or old, her husband is still alive and well, and she needs to be here, with me and my brothers and her grandson, not in heaven. The fact is, she is 79 years old, and in 10 or 15 years I will most likely have to go through what my boyfriend is going through.  However, at the rate she’s going, she may out live me.  She is rarely sick, not even with a cold, she still walks almost everyday and goes to her silver sneakers classes at the local rec center.  She still attends PEO meetings (I have yet to understand what goes on at a PEO meeting), she still volunteers for the elderly (the elderly that are older than she is), and she still puts out a beautiful, extravagant Christmas dinner every year. She is as pretty as she’s ever been, dresses like she’s a 45 year old retail clerk at Chico’s and not a 79 year old retired school teacher, and she frosts dozens of holiday sugar cookies like nobody’s business.  She is the kindest person I’ve ever met, and she is the voice I want to hear at the end of all my days.  None of this makes her perfect, and it’s not like our relationship hasn’t been without drama and tension, especially in my teen years. Have you seen Ladybird? We were a toned down version of that, and yes, she drug me by the ear out of more than a few parties.  Regardless of whatever pain we’ve put each other through, she gave me life, and in doing so became my reason for living.  She is the voice inside my head, every single day, telling me everything will be ok. Sometimes she is the voice telling me I’m not making a smart choice, but I make it anyways. (Is that a daughter thing? To intentionally do the exact opposite of what your mother wants you to do?) She is the voice reminding me to be polite and to say please and thank you and to always have good manners and to write thank you cards. She is the voice making sure I keep up on my household chores (she taught me how to clean a bathroom when I was 8 years old, a very necessary life skill).  She is the voice that reminds me I can do anything I set my mind to. She is also the voice telling me I’m too defensive and sensitive, and maybe someday I’ll tell her it could be because she is also the voice often criticizing the little things: “What’s going on with your hair? Is that a pimple or a cold sore? Have you gained a little weight? You’re getting so thin! I'm not sure the grammar in this blog is correct...”  Still, that voice, be it positive or passive aggressive, scolding or loving, that voice is the voice I call almost every single day to tell her every single thing that happened. It doesn’t matter that sometimes I call and she irritates me to no end and talks to me like I’m still 15, and that sometimes I clam up like I am 15. She is still the person I want to talk to about everything (well, maybe not EVERYTHING).  She doesn’t always tell me what I want to hear, and she doesn’t always understand me like I wish she would, and she doesn’t always have all the answers or give me the response I need, yet she is still the only person I want to talk to when I’m having a meltdown.  Maybe the reason I always want my Mom is that at the end of the day, she is the person who loves me most in the world, even when I mess up. Even when I make bad choices and even though I didn’t use my brain the way she hoped I would (ie: I’m not an accountant or a real estate agent or whatever other profession she deems practical).  Even though I am her bohemian gypsy daughter who never mastered my home economic skills and never gave her grandchildren, and even though I am a liberal left wing artsy type who has tatoos and piercings she never approved of….even though, she still loves me.  And I love her most in the world. Even though she worries incessantly and is a bit old fashioned and conservative, even though I can’t always tell her about all my demons and my deepest darkest secrets, even though she sighs “Oh Stephanie! “ (my given name), when I’ve done something that aggravates her, even though she likes to eat at places like the Olive Garden and Red Lobster and claims McDonalds does have “healthy” salads, even though she listens to the songs I write and comments, “They’re so depressing!” Even though, I still love her most in the world.  You see, it’s all these little idiosyncrasies that make her endearing. It’s the way she worries like crazy if I don’t call her immediately after I arrive at any destination, it’s the way she tells me and my brother we have no business going out at 10pm at night, it’s the way she calls me when she hears there is a tornado or tsunami warning near any place I live. It’s the coupons she puts in my Easter and Valentine cards (yes, she still gives me Valentines and this year she included a coupon for windshield wiper fluid).  It’s the books she gives me when she’s done reading them (especially our favorites by JoJo Moyes or Liane Moriarty), and when I open up the book cover, magazine articles will fall out… articles about migraine remedies or nutrition or advice from Oprah or Ellen on how to be kind and live a life of love. (Years ago she used to send me articles about AIDS and STDs, I’m sure she meant well but my brothers and I would get a good laugh out of it). It’s the Panera lunches and the shopping at Macy’s and the girly movies.  It’s the basement at her house that is stocked for the apocalypse, and I love to go down there and rummage through soup and cereal and soda to see if there’s anything I need. It’s the pink roses and daisies she sends me almost every year on my birthday and the ever so special cards she always picks out. It’s those Christmas dinners I mentioned, made with love in our Swedish tradition: swedish meatballs and bruna beans and something called ostkaka that is better than it sounds, especially if it’s covered in lingonberries. It’s the way the table looks at Christmas with it’s exquisite decorations and the “save for special occasion” china and real silverware (for years she tried talking me into taking my Aunt’s china, really…who uses china anymore besides our Moms?). It’s the coffee bread, oh the coffee bread, the most delicious pastry you’ve ever tasted, and is unfortunately a tradition that will probably die when she is gone since none of kids bothered to conquer such a skill. It’s the way we can talk about “This is Us” or “Grey’s Anatomy” or some other sappy show for hours at a time. It’s the way she picks out presents for me, always something I’ve had my eye on when we are out window shopping that turns up later in my Christmas or birthday package. It’s the way she has a bedroom set up for her grandson when he comes to visit and a complete set of legos or whatever his toy of the month is, ready for him to play with.  It’s the thank you cards I mentioned that my boyfriend laughs at yet loves, and he has decided he wants to start sending her thank you cards for the thank you cards and see how long they can go back and forth. It’s how she still takes me to the doctor when I’m sick and calls every morning to see if I’m feeling any better.  I don’t always answer because I’m sleeping or don’t feel any better, but I still appreciate the call. Mostly, it’s the way that she has decided I am the greatest daughter a mother could have, even though I dated all the wrong boys in high school (or until I was 40) and stayed out past curfew every Friday and worked as a cocktail waitress and then a bartender for way too long.  Even though I picked an odd career path for someone with straight As all through school and I’m poor all the time and I’m the exact opposite of what she thought I might be. Despite all of that, and the arguments we’ve had over the years, she loves me, and she has finally accepted that where I’m at in life is just fine because I am kind and compassionate and polite and thoughtful, all the things she instilled in me. And even though there are times when I wish she would have encouraged my artistic talents and sent me to a school for performing arts (Mom, please let me move to New York and be on Fame!!), times when I wish she would have hugged me instead of scolded me, and even though I sometimes wish she was a hip and progressive Mom like Lorelai Gilmore … even though….it doesn’t matter anymore. She is my Mom, she is wonderful, she is the voice in my head telling me that I am loved and I am good and I will be ok.  She is the BEST MOM EVER!  At least for me she is.  I can’t imagine how alone I will feel when she is no longer here, but I hope that voice inside my head never goes away, even if it’s saying, “Oh Stephanie! You have to set up a registry for your wedding, you can’t just expect cash! ”.   I love you Mom, please don’t go anywhere anytime too soon.  

**P.S.: I realize this may read like a living eulogy, and maybe that’s what it is. It’s just, when I heard my boyfriend and his brothers and sisters tell all these wonderful and interesting stories about their Mom at her memorial, I realized that I want to say all these things NOW, while my Mom is still alive and well and awesome.