Happy Mother's Day!

First of all, I hope all my readers had a Happy Mother's Day, whether you are a mother, a substitute mother to somebody (or many somebodies) who needs one, or someone who has been blessed by a mother or mother figure in your life, I salute you!

My felicitations and sympathies also go out to those of you whose experience with their mother or mother figures was not so positive.  We tend to make motherhood such a sacred cow.  I remember reading in one of author Robert (All I Really Need To Know, I Learned In Kindergarten) Fulghum's books that when he was an active Unitarian minister, one Mother's Day his homily alluded to these kind of relationships where the mothers were mentally ill, dysfunctional, or even abusive.  And Fulghum took alot of guff for even mentioning less-than-ideal maternal connections.  "Shame on you for spoiling this day!" was one of the more printable reactions to Fulghum's sermon that Sunday.  But for those of us who have had complicated relationships with our mothers, it is unrealistic and dishonoring to our experiences to make no mention of that reality at all.

My relationship with my mother has been a marathon, from living with Grandma (her mother) to my abusive stepfather, to just the two of us now.  The tenor of our tie has varied from the utter devotion of my childhood, to the feeling of betrayal after coming to the realization that, even if my mother was unaware of the sexual abuse my stepfather inflicted, she was mostly a silent but present witness to occasional physical, and nearly daily verbal abuse, as well as the many times my stepfather drove less than sober with me in the car.  One has to wrestle with questions like, "Why didn't my mother leave him, or at least protect me?  Didn't she love me?"  There are more questions than answers in this life, and this situation is one of them.  Maintaining even a semblance of a close relationship in this scenario requires either alot of denial, or forgiveness.  I've practiced both.  Neither route is easy; both can be fraught with complication and heartache.  But I can honestly say, there's no one in this life I have loved nearly as much as my mother.

One of my earliest memories is from when I was 3.  My mother and I were still living with Grandma.  One day my mum came home from her nursing job and she had a small quantity of blood on her uniform.  The amount looked big to my little eyes, and not being being real aware of the nature of my mother's work, I thought the blood was my mother's, and I demanded (!) to know who had hurt her so I could go beat them up (!).  As the reader can imagine, that allegiance came to be tested in the years after my mother's marriage, and just as I had worked through my childhood wounds, my mother became disabled, then the fight to retain her house began.  For more than 2 1/2 years I worked every day at one or another of three or four jobs, frequently 12 hours a day, without a day off.  I learned alot from the experience.  I learned how strong and resourceful I was, that my limits were not where I thought they were.  But most of all I learned that love is an action verb.  It is very easy to say we love someone, but the truth is in our actions, and our commitment to those we claim to love.

When I was young, like most of us, I didn't love the chores I was required to do, and as an only child, I had alot of 'em.  When I was about 14, my mother explained the reason behind the chores, "When you leave my house, these are the things you're going to need to know how to do in order to be on your own: Cook, clean, shop, laundry, ironing, simple sewing, and balancing a checkbook.  You're not leaving my house without knowing how to do all those things!"  And when I left my mother's house, I knew how to do all those things.  And because I did, I believed in my ability to learn how to do other things, like bake and make simple home repairs.  (Parents out there might consider my mother's list, and add a few other skills, like changing furnace filters, making those simple home repairs, and simple car repairs, too.  These skills are very handy to have, and quite expensive and inconvenient not to have, not to mention harder to learn when you're older and female.  It's best and easiest for parents to do the teaching).  Needless to say, growing up as I did taught me a good work ethic, which I'm sure most of us agree is indispensable in our post-modern world.

My mother taught me material honesty too, not just by saying, "Don't steal!", but by two incidents I remember from my childhood.  

One day we went through the bank's drive-thru to cash and deposit my mum's paycheck, and my mother received $2 too much.  We were in a hurry, my mother had to do a little grocery shopping and then go home and cook supper for us, and it was past 5:00.  (The bank was open till 8:00 on Fridays).  But she went right back through the line and gave the cashier the money back.  When the cashier thanked her, my mum said, " That's OK.  I didn't want your drawer to be short."  On the way to the grocery store, my mother explained to me that before she was a nurse, she'd had a job as a cashier in a little store, and if your drawer was short, you had to repay it, and if it was really short, you could be fired.  It's easy to make a mistake, and you couldn't always count on people to be aware or honest, and that was why she had been so scrupulous about returning the bank cashier's money.  We had a similar experience a few years later when the bakery overpaid her by 38¢.  The results of such diligence became apparent several years afterward, when my mother tried to pull $300 out of the ATM for an emergency.  She had taken some out the day before to treat us to some Chinese, and now wasn't allowed to withdraw what she needed because she'd be exceeding the daily ATM limit.  Of course it was after-hours.

I saw the branch manager working inside the bank and said to my mum, "Let's knock on the bank door, maybe Kerry can help us!" and after we did, Kerry the branch manager was prepared to give my mother money out of Kerry's own account because "you're a good customer, and I know where you live."  And my mother told her, "I'll give you a check right now, if you'll just approve it, for me to take it out of my own account," which Kerry did.  But can you imagine, being ready to give my mother money out of her own account?!  That is what I call having a good name!  My mother never commented on it, but just let me make of that lesson what I would.

In fact, my mother really isn't much of an advice-giver, unless I specifically request it.  And my mother isn't one who gives the conventional advice one might expect, you know, like clean-underwear-in-case-of-emergency-type of advice.  The most conventional advice my mother has given is along the lines of, "Don't lie, not only because it's wrong, but because you'll have to remember who you told what lie to, sooner or later you'll forget, and people will realize you lied, and everyone will be mad at you.  No one will trust you."  Yikes!

One thing I admire about my mother, when I ask her opinion, she gives it.  I don't always like my mother's opinions, but out of all the people I know, I can always count on my mother to tell me the truth, even sometimes unpleasant truths.  And my mother won't hesitate to tell me if she thinks I'm wrong.  My being her child doesn't mean she wears blinders.  I respect that.  It's helped keep my internal compass oriented a little closer to true north, and that makes my mother a valuable friend to have.

And many's the time my mother told me, "Claudia, the Good Lord gave you a brain.  Use it!"  That advice is coming in handy now.  I see people believing garbage that is being promulgated and spread, like so much fertilizer, over social media, etc., for the express purpose of furthering an agenda, whether it be lining their pockets, or strengthening their power base.  It makes me sick.  But I know it when I see it.  And that's because the same woman who told me to use my brain, also taught me to use reference materials, and did so by pretending not to know things I knew she knew.  Or not telling me answers to my endless questions, which would've been so much easier than making me look them up.  People whose mothers teach them to use reference materials tend to develop more critical thinking skills.  Thanks, Ma!

But my favorite piece of advice is totally off the wall, and I'd like to share it:  "When you're in a strange city, watch where the old people go to eat, and always go there.  It'll be the best food (cuz old people know good food) at the cheapest price (cuz old people are on fixed incomes)".   Sounds really off the wall, but I used that advice in Niagara, as well as the strangest of strange cities, Norfolk, VA, and it's definitely sound advice.

Because my mother is a nurse, and because so many members of my extended family are in the medical field (two doctors, another nurse and an EMT), and because our TV set broke and was not replaced for a year when I was about 10, (during which time I read everything in the house, to the tune of a set of encyclopedias, medical encyclopedias, and the Merck Manual), I had an unorthodox education.  So I was prepared enough for the pandemic not to believe the mountain of misinformation I saw, and I knew therefore how a virus operates, and what in general to expect.

Sometimes, perhaps like most of us, I have wished for someone else as my mother.  But not this past year.  This past year I have come to realize that though my mother made many mistakes that wound up hurting me, because she is my mother, I have been encoded, both by nature and nurture, with strength, courage, a hunger for knowledge, and a work ethic.  Among many other things.  Who's to say that these qualities haven't served me as well or better as other characteristics I may have wished for in a mother?