The Hallmark days of celebrating parents are here once again. This year, I’ve found myself taking greater stock in these annual observances. Maybe because fewer of them lie ahead for me.
Mother’s Day came a little early for us, as I spent last week with her in Florida. As usual, we caught up on the present. But we’ve also been digging deep into our shared history. We laughed about some things, scratched our heads about others. “What was I thinking?” is a phrase often shared between us.
Father’s Day, next month, may come too late this year. My Dad is in the hands of hospice nurses at his long-term care home. As of this writing, he’s still able to communicate. The nurses love him, and I know why. He is kind, mild-mannered, hard to frustrate. He takes an interest in their lives, asks about their spouses and kids, and thanks them for all they do.
In the face of life’s inevitability, I take comfort in my Mom’s ever-present positivity, even in situations that could defeat the strongest of dyed-in-the-wool optimists. The smile on her face reflects her relentless, obstinate commitment to making things better despite adversity.
Until a few years ago, she didn’t speak much about her life growing up in Virginia. I was surprised – yet not – to finally learn the particulars. Her upbringing might be summed up this way: “I was raised,” she says, “like a feral cat.”
I probably wouldn’t understand that coming from anyone else. From her, it makes perfect sense. She had to become her own parent while also taking care of her younger brother. The word STRONG does not even begin to describe her. I’d add these words to a much longer list: Relentless, Loving, Committed.
She attributes her optimism to daily affirmations. I’d say it’s cultivated from a life full of challenges.
When my Dad started dating my Mom, he told her he wasn’t looking for a relationship with a woman who had kids or pets. She had dyed purple hair at the time, and a wild, five-pound Dachshund who impregnated every un-spayed dog in the neighborhood, including a 40-pound Chow who presented an uncommon litter of puppies.
My mother also had a 14-year-old daughter. Me.
I often say that he’s the man who chose my Mom. But she was a package deal.
He took it: quite the plot twist for a quiet and reserved structural engineer whose squareness could be measured in the number of writing utensils brimming from his pocket protector. He brought zero drama to a house of drama queens. Yet he accepted the eccentricities, the mother-daughter screaming arguments, our screwball ideas.
At the time, we might not have been exactly what he was looking for. In hindsight, he says he hit the jackpot. He got my Mom, raised like a feral cat. He got me, raised by said feral cat.
And we got him. He never insisted that I call him my Dad. I do anyway. Because he is.
On Mother’s Day this year I love learning more about my mom’s resilience, persistence and commitment. She sometimes said she was misguided. I say, “No, it’s Miss Guided.”
My unorthodox upbringing has led to the life I have now.
I picked up some of the peculiarities of being raised a feral cat combined with an engineer. I run my own yoga business. I teach downward-facing dog. (No dachshunds; no chows!)
For all of this, I am grateful.
Happy Mother’s Day! xo Leah