Do you remember a few years ago, when the phrase, "Mother of all [fill in the blank with your own grandiose phrase,]" was so popular? We had the Mother of all wars. We had the Mother of all battles. We had the Mother of all bombs. Personally, speaking on behalf of mothers everywhere, I resent the association of motherhood with violence and destruction, since most of us spend our lives trying to achieve the opposite, at least within our own homes. However, today I find I must resurrect the phrase on behalf of my own mother, who is the Mother of all Mothers.
Today is her birthday, and I am celebrating with her, albeit from 425 miles away, the anniversary of the day that she graced the world with her presence. I don't know how you feel about your mom, but I love mine more than I can express, and I celebrate this day with great joy, because my mom is the best mom on earth.
Of course, as the offspring of child number five in her family of six, I have also had the opportunity to hear a few humorous stories that knock her right off that pedestal my brother has her on. [He always was her favorite, the suck up.]
My mother's family lived a relatively poor farming life, as most of the population did back in the days of The Great Depression, and they learned to make do or do without. They didn't starve, but they didn't have much spare change, either, so they were not awash in useless gewgaws like children today.
My mother learned to share from her earliest days, because she and her younger sister, child number six, were only 18 months apart. They shared a bed, they shared their toys, they shared their clothes, and they shared their friends. They even shared the family looks, as people have often mixed them up over the years.
My particular favorite sharing story is that they each had one "good" dress, which they would trade off wearing, so they would both feel like they had two. Given the closet full of clothes that most teenagers have now, it is hard to imagine only having two good dresses to wear. But I suspect they were happier to have their one apiece than most girls today are to have all their finery.
Another shared item that has given me some amusement over the years are the shared roller skates. They had one pair of skates between them, so they would either have to go one at a time, or, as I have heard it told, they would each wear one, hold hands, and skate together. I have a feeling that is why my aunt can always finish my mother's thoughts, even when Mom hasn't said a word.
My mom and my aunt also shared that most precious of toys in a little girl's world, a baby doll. When I was growing up, I got a doll almost every Christmas, which must have seemed like an embarrassment of riches to someone who only had half a doll to her name for a whole childhood.
Although money was tight, she made me a whole wardrobe of clothes for my dolls; little knitted Barbie dresses and ski outfits and long gowns with hand stitching, and baby doll capes and blouses and little skirts with adorable suspenders. The poverty of her youth inspired the creativity of her adulthood, and I was the fortunate recipient of her largess.
I didn't fully appreciate any of it at the time, of course, but I now cherish and hold every piece dear to my heart. Every stitch was filled with the love of giving her daughter something she never had, and I feel her love for me just holding the pieces in my hand. They are heirlooms to me, something that I will look forward to passing down to my grandchildren someday. I hope they will be a tangible reminder of the wealth of love that is to be found within their family circle, even if the woman who made them is no longer here to enjoy their delight.
My mom is perhaps the quietest of her siblings, some of whom are pretty chatty. Even now, in their 80's and 90's, I will occasionally see frustration written on her face as she tries to get a word in edgewise, usually without much success. I have been told by several aunts and uncles that my mom was daddy's girl, her father's favorite, and that she used to sit in his lap after supper almost every evening. I suspect that her talkative father appreciated the child who never had anything to say, and she was rewarded for always letting him have the last word with his special favor.
My mother was, and still is, a beautiful woman. It is sort of disconcerting to see pictures of her when she was young, and realize just how striking she was. Her black hair and red lipstick always remind me of a hard scrabble Snow White, a farm house for her castle, and a farmer her Prince Charming. She didn't have the money to dress to the height of fashion, but she always made whatever she wore look stylish and fashionable, just by putting it on.
My mother put the capital T in thrifty, and she worked hard to instill that same quality in her children. Apparently my brother was a better student, which might have something to do with that whole favorite thing, although my recent crash course may make her proud of me, yet.
She saves pretty much everything worth saving, and a whole lot of stuff that most people wouldn't, just in case. After all, you never know what you are going to need until you need it. I am sure this proclivity is partly from growing up on a farm in rural America, where you did for yourself or you did without, and partly from being a child of The Great Depression, where everyone did without, and they never want to do so again.
I have giggled more than once over the years about walking into her kitchen and seeing plastic bread bags hanging over the faucet to dry. She has the world's largest collection of twist ties, and more paper clips than she will use in a lifetime. She has every single pen that has ever come into her possession, whether they work or not. Some of those pens are probably collector's items by now, come to think of it, so perhaps she was not so silly after all!
My mother was born many years before John F. Kennedy was assassinated, but for most people, this day, November 22, will forever be the day that the world stopped and mourned the death of an American president. But for me, this is one of the happiest days of the year, because it is the day to celebrate a woman without whom my life would not be.
Her lasting legacy to me will not be riches or fame or material goods. [Although there is a certain rocking chair that has my name on it, whenever she is ready to give it up.] Instead, she will leave me with the extravagant love of a mother who has walked hand in hand with me when I wanted to quit, knows my mistakes and loves me anyway, and who unfailingly supports me, encourages me, and believes in me, even when I have given up on myself. She has given me the road map to be the best mother I can be, a gift I hope I have passed on to my children, as well.
Happy birthday, Mom of moms. You are, and will always be, the Mother of all mothers. I am thankful to call you my own, and I wish you many more to come. <3
