This month I celebrate mothers, especially my own, in honor of Mothers’ Day (this Sunday, just in case it slipped your ungrateful mind). My mother and I have a solid, communicative, and loving relationship because my mother has always accepted me for who and what I am—a punishment from God.
I admit, I was not an easy child to raise. The oldest of four, I was described by the nuns who taught me as “smart, but over-dramatic, procrastinating, and bossy.” Today they would say I am highly intelligent, creative, think things through, and have leadership qualities. Nonetheless, Mom, God bless her, took me on and shaped me into what I am today, a mother/grandmother of a small boy whose own parents lost sight of their priorities. For my mother, that means she gets to be a great-grandmother. It also means payback, big time!
Mom assumed many roles. She could open a haberdashery with all the hats she’s had to wear. Over the years, she has been a cook, waitress, and nutritionist. “Eat your carrots, they’re good for your eyes,” she’d admonish. She’s right—I still have pretty good eyesight. She has been my maid, laundress, and, as I got older, foreman: “Clean your room and do your laundry right now!”
She’s a great party-planner (arranging a lovely bridal shower when I married at age 51) and entertainment director. To this day, she never lets me forget how long she stood in line outside the Fox Theater in Spokane, Wash., in the winter, in the snow, so I could see the Disney film, Sleeping Beauty. She was my costume designer, and my first Halloween costume was Princess Aurora, complete with golden-haired mask and glittery blue gown, two sizes too big so my coat would fit underneath. I was the roundest Sleeping Beauty on the street, but I was warm!
Mom could give Project Runway’s Tim Gunn a run for his money as a fashion consultant: “You’re not wearing that out of this house, now go change!” Her advice was sound (“Wear nice underwear, in case you’re in an accident”) and sensible )“If all of your friends wore cow dung on their heads, does that mean you should?”).
She is a terrific role model and taught me to roll with the punches. Once she took us to watch, from a safe and respectful distance with other members of the community, circus animals being unloaded near Veterans’ Coliseum in Phoenix, Ariz. Suddenly a gruff handler stomped across the lot and brusquely ordered everyone to get the f*** out! She responded, in lady-like tones, “Come on, kids. I’ve been kicked out of better places by better people.” Wow! I’ll bet she has, too!
Mom acted as my lawyer, making deals with annoyed teachers to ensure my continued education. She was my disciplinarian, probation officer, jury, and judge, proclaiming my guilt (usually) or innocence (rarely) and handing down my sentence: “No Man from U.N.C.L.E. for you this week, young lady!” A week without David McCallum as Russian secret agent Illya Kuryakin was torture.
Mom has been my political advisor (“If all your friends jumped off a cliff, does that mean you should?”) and acting coach (“Sit up straight and act like a lady!”).
She has been my religious advisor (“God sees you when you do that!”), confessor, and grand inquisitor. My brothers and I still remember coming home from dates, seeing Mom waiting up for a “goodnight kiss” so she could smell our breath. I don’t think any of us had a drink until our 30s!
Mom has always been our superhero because of superpowers she possesses. The woman has eyes that can see 360 degrees at once, a basilisk stare that will freeze you in mid-offense, hands that can reach around corners and under doors without her moving from the kitchen table, ears that work like sonar, and a voice that can decalcify your spine from 500 yards away. (“I hear you in there—now get out of that cookie jar!”)
She has been my psychologist, nurse, and EMT, driving more than 50 miles late one night to pick me up from my college dorm and take me to the E.R. when I had a severe ear infection. I still have sound hearing because of her, a fact she reminds me of often, and I listen.
Throughout college she was my motivator, job consultant, and loan officer, her interest being my welfare. It was always Mom who urged me to write, saying “You’re so good with words.” During the lean times she was there to help keep a roof over my head and food in my fridge. In her honor, I even wrote my own words to the ditty, “MOTHER”:
M is for the Money that you’ve given me,
O is for the One-dollar bills you’ve sent.
T is for the Thousands I still owe you,
H is for the hundreds that you’ve lent.
E is for the Earnings that I never seem to save.
R is for the Reasons why you seek.
Put them all together and they spell MOTHER,
And I love you, may I have five bucks until next week?
Mom has been my best friend, comfort, and wing man. She always has my back, warming it when cold, propping it up when tired, rubbing out its aches, and prodding it with that sharp elbow of hers whenever it weakened.
She is loyal, devout, and the names of her loved ones are safe within her mouth. She is a terrific spin doctor (to which my editor can testify) and a remarkable teacher, especially on how to be a good mother. Without her continuous love, guidance, and nagging, I wouldn’t be saving up for her beach condo or writing this article right now. Hey, you’re right, Mom! I really am good with words! Thanks!
Donna Presta Berry Corea, is Ariel Waterman’s rock and inspiration. Send donations for condo payments via Executive Editor Ryan Miller at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in May 5-12, 2011.