I recently read an article by Rachel Stafford in which she wrote “Take time to be with him—really be with him by giving your full attention … The gift of your total presence is love to your child.” When I think of my childhood, that’s all I ever remember receiving from my mom. Mom has always made me feel like I was her Number One Priority. My mom has always made my interests her interests, whether it was GI Joe, professional wrestling, or theatre. Mom always made it a point to learn the names of my action figures and would also help me comb through the grass of our back yard if I lost one of their precious weapons. She would sit on the floor of my bedroom and play if I wanted her to, or she would just listen as I described The Transformers latest adventures. She would pick me up from school and drive home a little faster than she normally would so that I could see the new episodes of He-Man at 3:30. And I can probably count on my fingers the number times she and dad haven’t been in the audience if I’ve been performing on stage.
In high school, she started sharing this love and attention with my friends. Lots of folks had an “other mom” in her, and looked forward to coming to our house to hang out. It helped that she kept The Basket stocked with Little Debbie cakes, but more importantly she (and dad) loved my friends sincerely and fully.
She was Stay At Home when it wasn’t trendy. She packed lunches, made dinners, cleaned house, shopped, paid bills, did laundry, made beds… and really, honestly liked it. It was her job. She loved doing anything that meant she was taking care of Dad and me. And she worried. Did I mention worry? “Be careful. Don’t get wet. Put your gloves on. Be careful. Are you getting a cold? Be careful.” There is one perfect example of my mom’s concern: the time she drove through a tornado to pick me up from school. I’m not exactly sure why being in a car with her was a safer place for me to be in the tornado than the basement of school. But there she was, having dodged falling trees and power lines to arrive at school and fetch me out of the basement.
Even now, when things get low with her health, I know that she’s more troubled knowing the worry and concern that it causes Dad and Me than she is by her own discomfort. That’s the way she is. “You know how your Momma
is,” Dad will say. Yes, I do. Yes, I do.
Richard Nixon once said, “Nobody will ever write a book, probably, about my mother. Well, I guess all of you would say this about your mother — my mother was a saint.” I probably won’t be writing a book, either. But maybe this will do.
I love you, Momma. Happy Mother’s Day.
