Karma and Penance: part 3

...Giddy with excitement, I pulled the tissue paper back and discovered, instead of the dress of my dreams, the dress of my mother's dreams; that is no small gap at 15, the toddlery of teenhood.  That age when one is determined to do it herself!  To find her own way!  To like what she likes, without the interference of anyone, and maybe most of all her mother, whom she is determined never to become!

I was not this self aware at 15.  I could not make any sense of these feelings nor put words to them.  All I knew was that I hated that dress.  Really, really hated it.  It was 1985, and I was completely converted to the church of bigger, blingier, shinier, and shoulderpadier.  This dress was from a different era altogether.  The 1960's, perhaps, with its paired down and quaint cut.  I could not fathom was she was thinking.  Mercifully, despite my selfcenteredness at the time, I was not mean.  I didn't want to hurt my mom's feelings, so I feigned delight.  I thanked her, but then--and this is the behavior that will haunt me to my death--when she asked me to try it on, I...would...not.  Oh, I didn't outright refuse, I just...uum...postponed it.  "Oh, I will--later.  Mom!  I will.  Just not right this minute..."  And then I NEVER DID.  Not once.

I know.  It's awful.  I don't even know what became of that dress.  It hung in my closet as a silent accuser which I ignored.  Sure, I had stabs of guilt every now and again, but I was a determined soul and pushed it further into the dark recesses of cast off clothes, as if I could erase it's existence.  As if my mother, not seeing it, would forget.  As if I would forget. 

I have not.  Twenty-four years later I am more embarrassed by my truculence than ever.  Now that I know what it is to be my mother.  To sacrifice my most precious resource, which is not money, but time, the one thing that I never have in abundance, because I believe it will make my children happy, because I love them, because I would do anything for them.  And I do, which often includes absorbing their inexperienced, unintended, cruelties and loving them despite them--no, loving them through them.

Beyond the hundreds of Christmas gifts that my mother has given me, some that I remember, some that I do not, that is her real gift.  And though she would never require it, I do feel there is some penance to be paid her.  Some payment for the million sacrifices of her life for me, but I know that it is impossible to be even, except in this:  Love.  I don't know where it began, but it seems to flow from one generation to the next.  My love for her is expressed in the way I love my children.  At fifteen I was so determined to never become her, and now I hope I can be all of the things I love and adore about her.  This Christmas I sewed for my children, and whether they appreciate it or not, this kind of karma is a really good thing.

Karma and Penance: part 2

I was a teenager when it happened--most likely in that awful year for girls that is fifteen: When you still know everything, before you have truly contemplated flying the nest and therefore still believe that you are the center of the universe. I must have been that age.  That is my only excuse.

It was Christmas. And my mom was busy with a sewing project. She was visibly excited, and so was I. She didn't know, but I had taken a quick peek at the material, just to get an idea of what she was up to, and I loved it.  Remember, please, that it was the 80's when I say that it was pink lame. That distinctive shimmery fabric that defined the decade. Now, gold lame had been done: It dripped from the solid gold dancers and from half of the prom dresses sold in 1985, but pink lame with a silver shimmer? This was unusual, and beautiful, and soon to be mine!  Christmas could not come soon enough, at least for me.  Mom, on the other hand, probably needed some extra time.

After all, she had Christmas goodies to make, decorations to hang, cards to address, dinners to prepare, parties to throw, and now, aditionally, a dress to finish.  My glorious, pink lame, party dress. All of that other stuff didn't even enter into my stream of conscious. That stuff just--happened. It always had, magically, and it always would, as far as I was concerned. What caught my attention as I came and went as was my modus operandi in those days, flitting from one event to another, was the drone of the sewing machine.  No, Christmas could not come soon enough.

Then, suddenly, it was here, and I unwrapped the box that could only hold the dress of my dreams. I had at least twelve different plans for that dress.  Giddy with excitement, I folded back the tissue paper and discovered...

(to be continued)

Phoning Home

"Do you think the reference to my woo-hoo was a little over the top the other day?" I couldn't help but notice that one of my friendly readers dropped me like a hot potato the same day I referenced my...well, you know what. Coincidence? Probably not is my guess. I don't want to notice those things. I really don't. Because then I get a little weird. A bit obsessed perhaps. I start thinking in big swirls and loops, and my head gets dizzy.

"What?!" my mother responded laughingly.

Maybe I should have said hello first. "The other day in a blog post I mentioned my woo-hoo? Do you think that was inappropriate in the context?"

More laughter. "I didn't even think about it."

Phwew. Good. In my world there are only four opinions about me that matter. God's. Mine. My parents'. And now that I'm married--Mr. Wicke's. That last one is a little tricky, though, because we are very different creatures.

I had first asked Mr. Wicke his opinion. "Well, I wouldn't have done it." But that's the problem. Of course he wouldn't have. He's a solid 7 kind of guy, whereas I live my life in a random patterns of 5's and 10's. He's even keel, and I'm the slight ripples Heaven sent to liven up his trip a little.

"So...you're saying you think I was wrong?"

"No. I'm just saying that it's not something I would have done."

"What. You think I told people something they didn't already know? Like they thought the baby slipped out of my belly button or something?"

He smiled, "You're so funny."

"So, is there some judgement there?"

"No."

"Oh, I think there is."

"No, there isn't."

"You are no help at all! I'm going to ask my mother."

My mother is my moral thermometer in a lot of ways: A 77 year old woman who can not bear the words fart or butt (so sorry, Mom) and taught me everything I know about being decent has a lot of moral pull in my book. "You can't worry," she continued, "about what anyone else thinks. People who do that never write anything, or never write anything good."

And that's what I'm really trying to do. I want to write like no one is reading. Which is when I started thinking, what I am I writing this blog for anyway? If I really want to write like no one is reading, why not do it in a journal? What the heck is my purpose here? This isn't some exercise in narcissism every day, is it? Or IS it? Ugh. I'd hate to think that...Big swirls and loops in my brain. BIG. I'm still dizzy days later.

And then she said, and I love her for it, "Besides," you're really only writing for me, anyway." She doesn't have a problem with my occasional colorful descriptions. Instead, I make her laugh. And she, in turn, calms my dizzy brain. Maybe someday we'll be even, but I doubt it.

Phoning Home

I call my mom a lot. Probably at least three times a week, and we talk for no less than 45 minutes. I think about calling her every day. For no particular reason. Just because I'm doing dishes and want to talk. But I don't because I'm careful with money. Well, at least I think about money...once in a while, and in deference to our phone bill, I try to practice some self control.

Much to Mr. Wicke's credit he has never commented on my phone calls to mom. It is a non-issue. He doesn't complain that I call her a lot, and I don't complain that he married me and took me far away from her. Yet another example of how Mr. Wicke and I were made for each other.

The funny thing about these phone calls, however, is that I'm not so good on the phone with anyone else. I never have been. I was not one of those teens that spent hours on the phone with friends, and I'm not one of those adult women, either. Just with my mom do I call to talk about nothing in particular.

And here's why: I never worry that she'd rather be doing something else. You see, I am unendingly interesting to my mother. Believe me, I am not delusional enough to think that anyone else on the planet feels the same way, but to Mom I am fascinating. If there was a tabloid magazine solely devoted to my non-celebrity, very average existence, she would be the only subscriber. Do you know what a gift it is to be loved like that?

I am unguarded with my mother because there are no strings attached. She was the person who loved me first, and she has, from that moment on, been on my side. There is a day, somewhere in the future, that I fear: The day when I can no longer call my mom on the phone. In that moment, I will lose my champion, my touchstone, my cheerleader, and my friend. I try not to think of it often, but knowing, perhaps, that that day will come is not so entirely bad. Perhaps that is why I call so often, just to say, "I love you, too."

Mom's Potato Salad and the Fourth of July

The Fourth of July was busy. We held our 3rd Annual Pancake Breakfast, although it was necessary to whiddle that in size this year. We had to conserve our entertaining energy for the afternoon's Family and Friends BBQ. Due to a family wedding on the 7th, we had Thomas parents and many siblings in town, so we determined to celebrate the July birthdays together. It was a great day with lots and lots of good food, which means I was busy cooking and cleaning for most of the day, but I kind of like that.

Because when I'm in the kitchen on days like this I can't help but think of my mother, the years she spent creating happy memories for us, and I hope that I'm carrying on that tradition. When my hands are busy mixing and measuring I feel her and the history of all the women before in me.

This year, I was making her Potato Salad (that deserves the capitalization), and couldn't resist the urge to call her.

"Hey, mom. I'm making your potato salad and had to call. What are you doing?"

"Making potato salad."

Ahhh...History. Continuity. And that's when I knew I was right where I was supposed to be. Thanks, Mom, for everything.