In those mothering arms
Every year I write a similar Mother’s Day column. Maybe I change a word, shed a tear. Me, an only child. Deciding she didn’t like my birth father dentist — not even his teeth — when I was 2, my mother divorced him.
Mom then married my loving insurance man stepfather. No brothers, no sisters.
Mom was my All. Family. Friend. Caregiver. Protector. Doctor. Support system. Income producer. I am a Mother lover. Each year I miss my mom. And whoever I meet on later’s heavenly path I will never love more.
Today my Yorkie, Jellybean (my dogs always named with a “J” after Jessica, my mom), is needy. Craving attention. That was me growing up.
We had no money. Me, not talented. Not pretty. Chunky. Not great skin or glorious hair. Anemic. As a child I took trishaped green little Feosol tablets, which provide iron. Still today I take them.
She was my all
Mom — gorgeous. Thick red hair. Born in Liverpool. Perfect English. Executive secretary. Beautiful. Me, not. Always sickly. No matter what — she was always there for me. Acting school, modeling school, perfect pronunciation in a reporters school. I learned to walk, talk. She was determined I would become something.
Her parents — old-school. Not a penny. Grandma took in boarders. Grandpa a starving tailor.
Only relative on this family path, same age as my mom, was my longtime husband. When he passed on, she followed four months later. And then I was one.
Years had taken their toll on her. Then came a hospital bed that I bought for her in a Long Island house I maintained for her. A crew of people watching over her. Lying unfocused, unspeaking, unaware. No longer cognizant of who I was. A stuffed teddy bear inside the iron bars so her fingers would feel something warm and fuzzy to touch.
Even when she didn’t know it, I knew it. I knew inside that shell was the stunning, bright, sassy, educated, verbose, vibrant, witty, dynamic fun-loving killer lady who had forever been my All. My Everything. The core of my being.
She once wrote about me: “People told me as she was growing up that I spoiled my child. They were wrong. They didn’t understand what ‘giving’ or ‘my kid’ was. She was never the type to take more than one new anything. Now she’s the one giving and I’m the one trying not to take more than one new thing at any time.”
Saying goodbye
Time came when an icy stab of fear pierced me. I couldn’t even hug her. One that wouldn’t frighten her. Or be understood. Or returned. She couldn’t speak. I tried calming myself that somehow in her deepest recesses she sort of sensed mine was a friendly being. Maybe even a brief flicker of light as to who I was — the crying person touching her, hovering over her.
Pressures of life have in some cases shredded the delicate fabric that binds a family. For whatever reason, this world can create wide ugly gaps between mother and child. Not for me to sit in judgment.
I only say, Sunday is Mother’s Day. And if it’s within your ability — call. Send flowers. Tell your mother you love her. I wish I could.
I can’t anymore.
