Relationships with parents tend to be complicated, and mine are no more or less than most. As a child, my mother was the one who questioned why an A- wasn’t an A,
forced me to curl my hair for church so I would look presentable, had her own
idea of what I needed to do to be presentable, and a definite idea for what my
life should be.
As I grew into adulthood, my mother became the woman who realized my life was not
going to be what she thought it would be, and took whatever place I was willing
to allow her to have in my life. She’s
the woman who learned how to drop her ideas of a perfect life and say “Well,
honey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.” Over
the years, she learned how to mean it, too.
Mom allowed me to have a Momma.
To some degree, I always did have a Momma, too.
Momma is the one who shared stories and laughs with me even when I was a
kid, still living in her house and anxious to be anywhere else. We would always get giggling fits together,
which would proceed to full-on laughing fits, that we wouldn’t be able to get
under control until one of us ducked out of sight.
I know about my Momma’s upbringing and family, stories upon
stories. It’s just the connection we had
– she would tell me things. To a large
degree, I’m honored that she saw something in me, even when I was young, that made
her comfortable sharing pieces of her self with me.
Momma is the woman who recognized how miserable I was on a
family vacation to DC and just started making up a whopper of a story to make
me laugh. It involved Mammy, Ol’ Henry
and a couple other characters, and was told in a deep Southern accent. For years after, one of us could mention
Mammy or Ol’ Henry and we’d try to remember what they did or claim they did
something new.
Momma moved me to college; Mom refused to take me home until
I gave it a chance (I never went back).
Mom
cleaned every place I ever moved into, and my bathrooms every time she’s in
town. Mom says I hold down a full time
job, so it makes sense that I can’t find time for housework (seriously, that’s
what my Mom says!).
Mom showed up when he died, and was as unobtrusive as
possible while still doing everything I needed done, be it get out of my way
and let a friend drive me to the burial so I could try to believe this wasn’t really
happening, or wash the hoodies we pulled out of his car that were soaked in
gasoline. Mom sent me a card on the day
of the month that he died for 4+ years, and Momma grieved because she knew how
much it took for me to let someone into my life, and she hated that I’d lost
it.
Mom makes sure I have clean sheets to sleep on at her house,
and Momma – who hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol in my life – pulled out my
brother-in-law’s handle of rum the Christmas I showed up and announced I had an
emotional breakdown 20 miles out but still made it to their house.
Mom rearranges her schedule to catsit for me when I go on
vacation, is thrilled to meet me at baggage claim when I get back, and then
leaves me alone (as in, leave the house, leaves me alone) for the first 2 hours
so I can decompress and breathe after a day of being crammed on a plane with
other people. She understands when I say
I need to hibernate and learned how to email me so she can stay in touch when I don’t want
to talk.
Momma is the woman who supports me, has chosen to have a relationship with
me, does what I ask, and occasionally just does it regardless. Because “Mom” is her real name, “Momma” is her
nickname. It’s what I call her when I’m
talking to my friend, not an authority figure.
I’m 35 and this is definitely something that takes
time. It also requires a Mom who’s
willing to accept and love anyways. I
could’ve left my parents in the dust at any time in my life, but they chose to
be involved in whatever way I allowed and let me live a life I chose for
myself. They don’t push themselves on
me, and when I said I was happy with my chosen career, all they asked was if I
had healthcare and a 401k.
I set out to carve my own life for myself, and
much of that (for me) was saying that I didn’t want most of what I was taught
life was as a child. It’s my parents who
chose to stay in my life regardless. I’m
very aware of parents who never let go of who they wanted their child to be. I’m aware of how rare it is for parents to
wholeheartedly embrace a child who turned out differently than they’d
planned, with no resentment. I know how crazy special my
own set are and how blessed I am that God gave me to them.
Happy birthday, Momma.
