My Mom has two feet that are the same size

Today I'm proud to again be published at humorwriters.org . My post in honor of Mother's Day, Stroller Pains, can be found on their site by clicking HERE. Thanks, Teri!

Every year little munchkins at preschool answer simple questions about their mothers, and the teachers put it in a paragraph form and bind it prettily in a book. I always say these pamphlets read like cute little indictments. Read aloud to the whole congregation of moms at Mother's Day Tea, you're supposed to guess which one was written by your child. This year I knew from line one.

My precious Ella's book began thus:

My Mom is 10,ooo years old. She is big tall and she weighs 10 quarters.

Yes, I'm an old soul, probably on my 120th reincarnation. I've already used up a few lives this existence by nursing four kids on demand all night long for YEARS - probably look like I've used up this last reincarnation, too. What I want to know is, should I be shopping at the Big and Tall store? And do I weigh the same as 10 coins or 10 American Quarter horses?

She has brown eyes and brown hair (naturally). Her favorite food is healthy food. Her favorite drink is juice and water. My favorite thing she makes is spaghetti.

My mom likes to keep the house clean and I like to help her clean dishes.

What she no doubt meant was that I like to preach about healthy food while eating chocolate with pretty much every meal and that I like to dream about clean houses. She likes to play in the soapy water while I clean dishes.

When she is with my dad they like to take a nap together and they like to kiss.

That was a bit awkward, read aloud and all, but probably more awkward was my loud exclamation of, "Oh, no!" In giving myself away, what could I do but turn to the assembly and cry with conviction, "Well, who doesn't?"

When the laughter subsided, the book concluded thus:

My mom is prettiest when she wears her red dress with sparkly stars. My favorite thing she wears is her green and blue skirt. I think she is special because I love her. I love her too much! I would tell God that I love her.

I do have a red summer dress with sparkly stars, but I don't have a green and blue skirt and never have had. I would tell God thank you for my Ella and ask him to please help her and big brother Berto to get along.

That big bro Berto also authored a preschooler's book about Mom six years ago. At the time he and mama were going through a big disconnect. He hated preschool and was battling anxiety. I was pregnant with Ella and battling morning sickness. His book was more reserved, more accurate and full of searing honesty. It began thus:

My mom is 27 years old (I was exactly). She is 2 feet tall (not exactly). I think if she got measured at school, she would be up to that rainbow on the Noah's Ark measuring thing. She has 2 feet that are the same size. When she wears different clothes, she looks different. Her hair is brown and her eyes are brown (naturally).

Whew! Thank goodness I have two feet the same size! Big as they are, at least they're even. As for the different clothes, different mom thing, I may or may not have been with the CIA. I'm not telling.

I think her favorite food is vegetables and fruit, and other stuff that she eats (chocolate, scones, whipping cream...). I like eating carrots, but I just get them from the refrigerator. The favorite thing she makes me is fruit.

This makes me sound as if I had the poor boy scrounging for himself. Mama, can I have something to eat? Berto would ask. I routinely replied, Are there not carrots in the refrigerator? And then I "made" him fruit by washing it.

My mom likes to snuggle with me. I like to play Candy Land with her. Mom and Dad like to bake stuff in pans together. Momma laughs a little, but not a lot. I laugh a lot. She is funny when she doesn't win at Candy Land. She makes me happy by snuggling with me. I make her happy when I behave.

I played tons of games with Berto when he was a little tike, usually while his little sis Ana was napping. He could beat his papa and me at Sorry! when he was four years old - four years old, people! We always said the Sorry! Leprechauns were on his side; apparently, the Candy Land ones were with him, too.

Berto concluded:

My momma is prettiest when she snuggles with me and her hair is down. I don't have a favorite outfit she wears. Sometimes she is special, but not all the time. I love her A TON. If I talked to God, I'd thank God for her.

The boy has always been obsessed with hair. From the time he was two months old and could get a firm grip on it, he latched on to mine. It became his "lovey".

The part that pierced my heart in this final paragraph was "sometimes she is special, but not all the time." I hoped that it was only because we were going through such a difficult time together, but it broke my heart a little.

Still, he said he loved me A TON, and three years later in first grade, he wrote this:

My mom's name is Hillary. She is special because she loves me so much and I love her so much. I like it when she hugs me. I think she's best at cooking yummy things (no more carrots?) I like to make her smile by being nice to her. My mom is as pretty as !000 patches of flowers. My mom is smart. She even knows how to be the best mom ever! I'd like to tell my mom how awesome and great she is.

Obviously, the boy learned to be more diplomatic.

Ana, my oldest girl, never went to preschool. This is was what my love bug, who wants to follow me around with arms glued about my waist, wrote in first grade:

My mom is special because she loves me. I love her, too. I like it when my mom hugs me! I think she's best at watching the baby (It's hard not to watch a baby who's on the hip or breast nearly every moment. Still, practice makes close to perfect with constant prayer). I like to make her smile by being funny. My mom is as pretty as a tulip (I love that; it was my grandmama's favorite flower). My mom is smart. She even knows what movies I can watch.

As for my three-year-old Danny, he comes to roost softly on my lap every now and then to proclaim, "Mommy, you the best mommy in whole world!" Gabriella tells me that, too, but she squeezes me hard while showing her teeth in order to scare away any bad-mommy inclinations that might remain. All my children raise their hands when I stand over a sink of dishes and call out casually, "Who thinks Mama is the loveliest woman in the whole wide world?" - especially when I've just threatened to take them to the zoo to live with the komodo dragons or spectacled bears.

Now, I would like to answer some questions about my beautiful mother, my Mama Darlin'. Yes, I'm 33 years old and a bit old for this, but I never went to preschool. So here goes:

My mom is Forever Young years old. She is 5'5 and a half. She has topaz eyes and red/brown/black hair. One of her daughters once said to her, "Mama, I don't think I've ever seen you with a bit of gray in your hair!", and she replied, "And you never will, either!" Then she laughed like a school girl. Her favorite food is seafood. Her favorite drink is wine. My favorite thing she has ever made me is blackberry cobbler. Yummy!

My mom likes to go shopping, especially in Paris. When she is with my dad, I don't know and I don't want to know, but I think they like to take naps together and kiss.

My mom laughs easily, and it's like a tinkling bell, inspiring joy. It's part of what makes her forever young. She makes me happy when she laughs, gives me great advice and when I see her with my children. I make her happy when I call or come to visit.

My mom is the prettiest when she wears her business suits with scarfs and beautiful jewelry. My favorite thing she wears is the dramatic jewelry that I love, looking like an Egyptian princess. I think she is special because she is so kind she would defend the devil, and she can be optimistic in almost every circumstance. I love her too much, A TON! I would tell God to please remember that I'm her daughter, so I can't mess up too bad, right?

I Forgot to Say I Love You, Mama Darlin'

With every child Matthew and I have added to our family, my respect for my mother has grown exponentially.

Mama Darlin' and her four critters, as she'd call us

Dad tells a story from when he was working for a power line company in these western United States, days when he worked "light to light", leaving at dawn to work on the large structures that spread across the prairies and coming home after most of us kids had been put to bed. During his lunch break one day, he was driving through the town. As he slowed at a street light, he saw a woman crossing the street with a child holding her hand, a baby in her arms, another child gripping her pant leg and a fourth little one holding onto a sibling's hand. Dad had the instinctive thought, "Poor woman!", but as she crossed in front of him, he realized with a shock that it was his own wife and his children.

My mother isn't just extraordinary because she at one time herded children safely with her wherever she went. She's an incredible woman, because she told my dad she wanted no offspring when they first met and yet when she and Dad built their family, she became known to her children as "Saint Mommy" for her sweet, selfless spirit and her gentle words and touch. She's amazing, because as a teenager most thought of her as a hothouse flower, beautiful but not inclined toward outdoor adventures. Yet when we moved to the South, she would spend years of her life hiking through the hills and hollows of Middle Tennessee in order to help provide for the family. She knelt in the dirt to dig valuable roots (ginseng, goldenseal) and rolled grapevine and briar wreaths against her stomach beneath the hardwood trees. She wore flannel as if it were the only natural choice for a lovely woman and carried hand sewn jean sacks with her cold lunch and water bottle slung across her body. What's remarkable is that she enjoyed the experience, relishing not only the exercise and being in nature but the time spent with her husband.

I knew as a child that my mom was beautiful, that she was kind and optimistic. But I must admit I did not realize how resilient she was, how determined, how intelligent, how centered she was until I started to bushwhack my way through life with my own little ones in tow. With each baby I welcomed into my arms and life, the horizon of my understanding expanded until it richly glowed with revelations about motherhood and about Mama Darlin's saintlike attributes.

I have a memory to share. It is not what you would expect, but it is a powerful memory about a Mother's Day a long time ago. First let me say that I do remember occasions when I made cards and paper flowers for Mama at school. I remember times when Annie and Vinca prepared Mama a humble breakfast, and Nate and I clumsily took it to her. There were years when we plucked a profusion of tiger lilys from the creek bank to bring her. I can also still see the sewing basket with roses on the fabric that I insisted on getting her for a gift one year despite the fact that she rarely found time to sew, saving the jean sacks for work. But the memory that is most powerful is also sad, and it recalls a time when we kids neglected to show our mother how much we loved and appreciated her.

That Mother's Day was not what it should have been from the beginning. Our family was struggling financially, and we all were suffering from malaise because of the stress and uncertainty. Dad left early that Sunday to work in the fields of a neighbor, Mr. Wellins, in order to bring in more money. The house was quiet.

We kids kept mostly to our rooms. I laid on the floor in Annie's and my bedroom with sheets of paper spread around me, trying half-heartedly to write a poem for my mother or at least draw a picture. As I balled up rejected attempts at a gift and threw them into the corner, I should have realized I was already way behind the game. Still, being late with a gift is a far better thing than giving none at all, especially when the gift is meant for the most important woman in the world.

The next afternoon I remember vividly, painfully clear. We kids got off the bus to begin a hot, dusty walk down the lane toward home, and Dad pulled up in the car. We were surprised to see him but grateful to have a ride and to skip the exercise. The stern expression on our dad's face should have warned us that something was amiss, but we climbed in with barely a word of greeting and slumped into our respective places on the worn vinyl.

Dad didn't say hello to us either, and he drove very slowly. We had just passed the large beautifully-branching tree at the crest of the hill above the creek when he said suddenly:

"Your mother cried all morning."

I tensed. All of us sat up, apathy gone, no longer bored or disinterested.

"She said none of you did anything for her yesterday," said Dad. "You didn't even wish her a happy Mother's Day."

It was then that I got that burning feeling in my gut, that horrible reaction that is caused by fear - the horror of having done (or not done) what can't be changed, can't be undone or taken back. It's an emotional nausea that roils through one's insides.

The four of us stammered in turns, attempting to come up with an explanation, an excuse. I lamely uttered the fact that I had tried to make something, but it hadn't come out right. Dad was silent, the expression on his face unalterable rebuke. I remember we were passing the creek, that peaceful beautiful stream, when we began to break down one by one with the intense remorse, some of us sobbing loudly.

As we passed the cornfield and approached the turn of the driveway, Dad cut quietly through all the tears, "You're going to apologize to your mother. And you're going to make it up to her. I don't know how you can, but you will."

We tumbled out of the car when it stopped by our little square home. We tore through the front door in a pack and stormed our mother as she stood in the kitchen, hugging her, crying, apologizing continually, and professing our love for her. She held us and received it all with grace.

And that is so like her sweet nature.

But I am still sad to think there ever was a time when I forgot to say, "Mama  Darlin', I love you."

Broken

When my eldest son realized what he'd done, or, rather, when I told him just what it was in a calm tone but with a critical expression, he instantly got angry about the fact that he would be blamed for an accident, an accident that involved throwing a toy hard against the front door just for kicks, but an action that had unintended results nonetheless. Oh, my son! He should have realized that his mother was the one who had the right to the crying and yelling.

I wanted to cry, but even as I picked up the three large pieces of the broken cross I could not. Still it was the second blow to my romantic sensibilities in a month. The first had come when the beautiful purple ornament that had been a first Christmas gift to Matthew had smashed on the floor behind the TV, spattering the evidence in thin slivers of broken glass against the wall. It had engraved on it, "Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy!"

I hadn't cried then, either. But I feel very sad about it even now. Still, I had neglected to wrap it carefully and stow it away with the other Christmas ornaments, mostly because it was so large. Now, it's gone and it could have been a fixture on our tree for many years, a reminder of Matthew's and my first Christmas together. Each year as I hung it on a higher branch out of the reach of our little ones, I could have smiled as I reminisced about how I lost this gift before he came for that first Christmas visit, so I had to tell him about how beautiful it was with its gold inscription, and he didn't receive it until almost a year later. I can no longer have that memory ritual each year. It's broken, and no other Christmas ornament can be from the same time in our lives.

The cross, a wedding gift from Matthew's aunt, survives - carefully glued back together, a chunk or two missing. But it is affixed to its proper place by our threshold again, there to witness all our daily hellos and goodbyes, a gatekeeper of sorts. I hope it lives long and prospers.

But its taught me a lesson, this breaking of romantic relics. What goes around comes around, so they say. Now I understand how my mom felt.

When I broke the slender blue-green vase that she and Dad had gotten on their wedding day, I understand why she cried so much and kept asking how? how did this happen? But, most especially, I am close because of the smashed Christmas ball to understanding how she felt the day my brother and I were playing in my sister Vinca's room, rummaging through the closet. We found so many curious relics from Mom and Dad's early years in some boxes there - seashells, identity bracelets, old pamphlets from when Dad ran for State Rep in Idaho. The most boring object, the plainest thing we discovered was a small glass bowl. We carelessly laid it aside in our quest for the interesting, and somehow it broke.

We knew it at least had to be old, so we went to confess, but we were in no way prepared for the emotional response that gripped our mother's face. She sobbed as she took the broken pieces, and then she explained, as I had to do with my own son, that this plain glass bowl had held flowers given to her by our father before they were married. So many years it had been preserved, and we had destroyed this tangible piece of romance in a few careless minutes.

We apologized repeatedly, but our words weren't making a difference. When Mom told us it was okay, that was for our sakes, to make us feel better, less desperate. It didn't alter at all her heartbreak.

It makes me sad to remember that. But I do remember. And now I understand.