Happy Birthday, Mom!

Whenever I release a new blog post, my mom is the first one to read it, always sending me inspirational emails. “Wonderful post again. You are so special.” or “This one was so great. Spectacular.” When I ask what she wants for her birthday, she says, “Write down some happy memories that you have.”

Mom, this is one is for you…

I am the oldest of three kids and have the most history with my mom. Picture me sticking my tongue out at my brother Sean and sister Erin. I remember our first apartment, where the three of us lived in a tiny space in a tiny town called Freeland. My parents rebelled and moved the furthest of their siblings-one whole hour. My parents had no money. They chose noble professions. My Mom was a teacher and my Dad was a vocational director for those with intellectual disabilities. Picturing those young, lean, and happy early days makes me smile.

Never was our lack of cash forefront in my memories, but I do remember being forced to be creative. I remember coloring with crayons because they were cheaper and had more longevity than markers. We used refrigerator boxes as forts, and decorated them with drawings. I remember playing “make-believe” A LOT. “This rotted wood is chicken and these leaves are lettuce and voila, here is dinner.” My mom read books to me often, which developed into my own insatiable love of information.

Even as a baby, my parents took me hiking, exploring different trails in different state parks. Camping, not Disney, was our vacation. Setting up the tent and sleeping in the backyard was a treat. We got a thrill from swimming in mountain lakes. We played in the town parks, spinning on a merry-go-round until we were dizzy. At dusk, my mom would squawk a bike horn to call us home for dinner.

I remember visiting my mom’s elderly friend who lived below our apartment. We would visit the parents of my mom’s friends if they needed some company. I learned to respect and revere the elderly from my mom.

My parent’s friends visited often and felt more like family. After a fun night with the company, I coerced my mom into reading me one more story. I snuggled into my bed, drifting to sleep to the smell of popcorn and the sounds of a pinochle game.

I learned resourcefulness from my parents. I watched them recover a worn couch and make bookshelves out of bricks and planks. My mom would sew patches upon patches to our clothes. She even sewed our outfits from scratch. Sean and I rocked matching denim vests with our names on them.

We weren’t allowed to eat sugar. My mom was ahead of her time. We ate low glycemic index, organic, whole foods. We had two things that contained sugar in our house- Country Time lemonade mix and ice cream. For a fix, my brother and I would lick our fingers, put them in the lemonade mix, and then lick it off, like a poor man’s Pixie Stick. We had ice cream but we were only allowed to eat it if we sprinkled wheat germ on top. As an adult, I am grateful for the healthy start, but back then, it was torture. When we visited friends who served waffles and syrup for brunch, Sean and I would eat ourselves sick and hyper.

My mom has strong convictions and taught me to stand firm on my beliefs. When I was a baby, she was an adamant La Leche League member. She goes to church every Sunday. My mom believes in giving back everything you can. She believes in telling the truth, which was one of the first direct lessons she taught me. “No matter what you do, you will make it worse if you lie to me about it.” I learned my tenacity, integrity, values, and stubbornness by example.

“When two people love each other very much…” I remember my mom explaining sex. She approached this conversation very scientifically, but still allowed for the emotion. Being in 3rd or 4th grade, I was young when she told me. She wanted me to have the correct information directly from her before I would hear it elsewhere. I went to school and told many kids in my class, saying, “You are NOT going to believe this!!!”

One night when I was in 6th grade, my mom came to my room to tuck me in. As she left the room, I hid my face and whispered, “Can I get a bra?” My mom paused, surprised, and said, “Why do you want one?” I said bravely, “I think I need one.” (I didn’t.) My mom said, “Ok, then, we will see what we can do.” I slept with the biggest grin. This is an example of how my mom handled me. She gave me the power of discussion and reason.

My mom insisted that I learn how to drive a stick shift. She never wanted me to be dependent or stranded for lack of this simple skill. Sitting in the passenger seat, she endured the jerking starts of my clutch practice. My baby sister Erin sat in her car seat in the back, pouting because of the lack of smoothness.

My parents gave us a religious basis for values. They raised us Catholic, with strict rights and wrongs. We went to church every Sunday. We did all the sacraments-baptism, penance, communion, confirmation. I even tried marriage. Religion was extremely important to my parents.

At one point in my life, after a few unsavory experiences with the church and clergy, I questioned the doctrine. I studied other religions. I read the Bible. My friends believed in Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, Unitarianism. I married a Jewish man. I went to Temple. For a time, the Dead Sea Scrolls took over my brain. I read the major documents of the world religions. I read The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown. I read all the books he used to research that book. I took online  “What is your religion?” tests. I searched my soul and heart for the label for what I believed, and what felt right in my heart. I journaled and meditated about it.

In the end, it wasn’t Christianity. It was a more simplistic nature-based belief of kindness. No church, no sacraments, no buildings, no Messiahs, no leaders, no label.

I was nervous to tell my mom that I didn’t believe what she did. After listening carefully, she said, “Of course, you need to be at peace with how you live. I love you regardless. Do what is right for you.”

My mom gave me the greatest gift. Universally, I cut and paste that response into any of my life decisions.

I tried to describe the mom I knew through my memories of my childhood. To look at it from another angle years later, I would like to depict the mom I know now.

That mom is my friend. She listens endlessly to me talk about my life and my problems, no matter how mundane or repetitive. That mom rejoices with me in my triumphs. She reads everything I write with enthusiasm. My mom encourages me to travel and live life and experience everything. She is supportive even when she can’t understand my wanderlust. My mom always encourages me to go farther, do more, and don’t be afraid, even when she is afraid for me. She thinks I can do anything, even when I don’t think I can.

Growing up, my mom knew sometimes I needed to struggle and learn for myself. She knows the difference between when I need to figure it out on my own and when I need help. Sometimes, she knows she needs to just let me be. She knew when to let me fly away from the nest, trusting my own wings, and she knew just how to welcome me back. She is always there, literally or in my thoughts, cheering me on, supporting me, and always, always loving me.