To you, my mother is no one special. Her name will never appear in bright lights and she would probably shave her head before appearing on TV. She is just a simple woman who runs a resale shop in a small town a couple of days a week.
My mother was born to two East Coasters who found themselves living in Santa Barbara in the early 60's. My grandmother spoke with a Boston accent and when she'd drink alcohol on rare occasion, her nose would turn red. My grandfather devoted his days to routine and his Bible. I never really got to know the people who raised my mother. They lived 3,000 miles from us. But I do know that they must have been amazing because they raised my mother, who just happens to be the most amazing woman I've ever known.
If you ask my mother, she will tell you she had an idyllic childhood. She rode her bike, went to church, spent carefree days with her brothers drinking from the garden hose, and would walk to the grocery store for her mom to buy groceries. "Life," she'd tell you, "was simple and easy."
My mother wasn't popular in school. The only thing she's ever really told me about her high school experience, other than her love of long-distance running and stalking cute boys, is that she attended high school with some famous people. The list includes: Kathy Ireland, Eric Stoltz, and Anthony Edwards. Is she impressed that these people made names for themselves? No. She has never based anyone's success on fame and fortune. She bases success on people's hearts.
Her biggest high school regret? "I wish I hadn't cared what other people thought," she once told me.
Even though she had the option, my mother didn't go to college. Her parents encouraged her to get a job and make a living. So, she did.
And that's how she met my father. They both worked at a fast food restaurant and like all young, carefree, fast food sweethearts, they fell in love.
My parents married on August 18, 1985 in a small ceremony at the courthouse. I have old videos from their reception at my grandparents' house. My mother wore flowers in her hair and she smiled the whole time. I have never seen her look more beautiful than the day she dawned that white lace dress and became my father's first wife.
I don't really know a lot about my parents' marriage. I just know that my mother devoted her days to cleaning and cooking. My father, conversely, devoted his days to work. I think that eventually separated them. They had nothing in common and our dinner table was surprisingly quiet at night. They weren't passionately in love. There was no fire. As the years wore on, I think they both realized that.
For years, I studied my mother as she prepared my father's meals and washed his clothes. She never argued with him. Never purposely annoyed him. Never did anything but simply exist in his house like a picture on the wall. She was in the background while he was the main attraction. And she never minded.
Looking back, I'm grateful that my father decided to end their marriage. Sure, it felt like the end of the world at the time. It hurt. We cried. A lot. We learned how to keep moving forward. And I watched my mother blossom from a wall flower to a social butterfly as she learned how to live without my father. He set her free when he decided he no longer loved her.
The sound of my mother laughing wasn't heard often in my father's house. I can't really remember her smiling or throwing back her head in amusement. Now, it's rare if I don't hear her laugh on a daily basis. She'll call me in the evenings to let me know she got stuck on something and fell like a ton of bricks to the ground. "I just laid there for a minute," she'll chuckle, "making sure nothing was broken."
My mother has hobbies now. She gardens, She walks. She has a dog that follows her around like a shadow. She's a manager. She's a great listener. She spends her days in the quiet ebb and flow of country life. She dreams about helping people and one day having a bunch of chickens. She laughs a lot and finally stands up for herself. She's never cruel; always kind. And she cries happy tears. All. The. Time.
To you, my mother is no one special. But to me, she is the woman who gave me life. She is the woman who spent countless hours teaching a selfish younger version of myself to care intensely for the well being of others. She showed me how to love quietly and gently. She instilled in me a desire to pick my battles carefully and to never judge someone by their situation. She is my best friend, my closest confidante and the reason I dutifully clean my house and iron my husband's shirts.
The story of my mother's life is this: when the floor falls out beneath you, keep moving. Keep going. Laugh. Cry. Breathe. And when it's all said and done, don't let life make you bitter. Let life make you better.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom! Thanks for letting me part of your story.
I love you
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