A Love Letter To My Mom on Mother's Day
Two things are not
allowed to be said in our house. One is for me to ask Bob, “Have I
gained weight?” The other is for him to say to me, “You sound like
your mother.”
It wasn’t until recent
years, though, I learned that we tend to unfairly find fault with
our mothers. I think that’s because dads of my generation were
rarely around, so who else was there to
blame?
Now as I look back, I
am reminded of my mother’s kindness. When I turned 15, she surprised
me with a Princess Phone with my very own phone number. She had
pre-arranged that our neighbor would call while we were having
dinner. When I heard ringing coming from my bedroom, she laughed as
I ran to find the pink phone under my bed. Her happiness matched
mine.
Four times a year I’d
fly home to Baltimore from Syracuse University, usually with my
dungaree jacket in my lap. I always threw up, but I was too
embarrassed to use the airsick bags because everyone would then know
what I was doing. Instead, I’d bend over and loudly vomit into my
jacket. As I’d walk off the plane, Mom would quietly take my balled
up jacket. She’d launder it for me later.
“I hate you!” I
screamed at her, after my first year of college. She held up the
Dean’s letter that stated I had flunked out. It was the sixties.
“Nobody goes to classes,” I yelled. “Classes are part of the
establishment!” I stomped my foot. “Like you and your middle class
friends!”
“We paid thousands of
dollars for you to go to Syracuse.”
“So it’s all about
money, you imperialistic, materialistic . . . um . . . person.” I stomped my other
foot. She sent me to a psychiatrist. I sat in his office crying. “I
never thought I’d flunk out.”
“Can you make it
better?” he asked. And between the two of us, we figured out a plan
that included summer school so I could get re-instated. Thank God my
mother made me see that shrink.
Years later, I had to
tell her I was going to marry a non-Jew. I shoved the phone at Bob
after my 2nd sip of wine. “You tell her,” I said. He
handed it back. I picked up the bottle and swigged. Bob took it
away. “Mom?” I said. “I, um
. . . ” I
reached for the bottle. “
“You and Bob are
getting married.”
“How did you know?” I
said and she laughed knowingly. We were welcomed that weekend in
Baltimore with a family party complete with presents and potato
latkes the way Bob and I like them – with sour cream and apple
sauce.
And so, this Mother’s
Day, I wish that she was still around. I would say, “I’m sorry, Mom,
that I worried you so much. I’m sorry that I didn’t appreciate how
hard you both worked to put me through college. I’m sorry for all
the times I disappointed you.”
And you know what she’d
say? She’d probably say, “I love you. I always have. Whenever
something bad happened to you, I would rather it had happened to me.
No matter what you did wrong, I always had faith in you. When you
made decisions that I hated, I knew you were just being a kid and
you weren’t trying to make me unhappy. I’ve never doubted that you
loved me. You are . .
. the light of my
life.”
