Mothers Day 2
So, I write a lot about my mom's suicide and the effect it had on me. What I don't write about often enough is who she was.
I guess I need to start off with what I always do. Her beauty. She was the kind of beautiful that stopped men in the street. I saw it happen for real when she took me to Chicago for my 13th birthday. When she was 50 years old, 20 year old students were still asking her out. She wasn't photogenic, so I don't have a picture that really captures it, but trust me on this, she was the kind of beautiful that stopped traffic.
And she had the best voice I've ever heard. Something like June Allyson's. It always reminded be of soft-serve vanilla ice cream. Cool and warm at the same time. I only tended to notice when she was comforting me after some accident or another. I was that kid who fell down a lot, and got sick at least a couple of times a year. She'd talk to me gently and rest her wrist on my forehead. If I was stuck in bed, she'd read to me in that voice and really there was nothing better in the world. I still love Scruffy the Ape, cause she'd laugh out loud and do funny voices when she was reading it.
She was a warm and loving human being at her core. She once dissolved in tears when I said something to the effect that I was a child she never should have had. "You don't understand. Each one of you kids was loved and wanted very much." I never had cause to doubt that she loved me, and all my brothers and sisters, and her grandchildren. Especially her grandchildren. She adored those kids and spent hours talking about how cute and funny they were, and their little personality quirks.
She had various stomach troubles and would sip still-liquid jell-o in bed. I'd sit on the edge of the bed and prattle on about this boy at school or that opinion of the universe. Patient and kind, no matter what amount of pain she was in, she'd nod and listen with full attention as if any of it was as important as I thought it was at the time. And when I sailed onto to some other crush or subject, she'd just go with it and smile.
When I think of the positive stuff, I remember sitting with her in the kitchen, watching the boats out the bay window. I think it was a bay window. Not completely sure anymore. But we'd sit together at the little cafe table we had in the kitchen and just chat. It was lovely. After she died, I would have dreams of sitting at that table with her, but I couldn't hear her voice. My therapist told me to turn the sound up, like on a TV. When I did, I expected to hear something life-changing. I didn't. It was just the sound of her voice talking about how pretty the sunlight on the water was. It was a lovely memory.
She definitely loved me, but also had some trouble connecting with me. My fault, not hers. I wasn't what she expected me to be and that confused both of us. So she tried signing us up for classes to build a stronger relationship. Cake decorating, which she had a flair for. Pottery painting, which I really loved although it would have killed me to admit it. Flower arranging, didn't suit either of us, but we tried.
She was proud of my playing piano and going to a boarding\music school was her idea. Forcefully her idea. But I'm trying to focus on the positive stuff. She came to visit me at school on my 16th birthday. She and Grandma Fran took me to the local department store and told me I could have anything I wanted. When I picked a teddy bear, she dissolved in tears again.
Back in middle school, I pulled a classic, "Mom, I have to bring 30 baked goods in for home ec tomorrow." I still remember the look on her face, somewhere between anger, shock, and amusement. She taught me how to make pizza twists (dough with pizza sauce rolled in) and stayed up most of the night to make sure it got done. I do not remember staying up that night. I remember that she did. I think we did the first two batches together and then she sent me to bed.
I remember she had an 8-track of the Paint Your Wagon soundtrack in the car. We'd turn it up and sing along. Her favorite was Wandrin' Star. Mine was I Talk to the Trees. I remember her teaching me to drive and telling me that I had to go faster than the speed limit or I'd get run over. And I remember how frustrated\amused she was when Kent came to visit and he wouldn't turn left if traffic was coming. She didn't actually call him a hick, but she did say he was obviously raised in the country.
The day I had my first car accident it was in her car. I was actually going to get her paycheck from the hospital because she didn't feel well. I only had a learners permit and I crashed head on into another car trying to make a left turn. Totalled the other car and the driver had to go to the hospital. Oddly enough she was exactly my age, driving her mother's car on a learners permit. She was fine, but scared to death what her mom was going to do. The cops brought me home. My mom was waiting at the door with a glass of whiskey and a valium, which she popped into my mouth before I could utter a sound, then told me to wash it down with the stuff in the glass. I have no further memories of that day. As a friend said, Mom to the Rescue!
I remember when we moved into the river house, there was a bright orange carpet in the living room. We were painting the walls white, well, my sister was. She had brought her baby boys with her and and I was supposed to be babysitting. Somehow, I turned around to see a full gallon of white paint had spilled right in the center of the bright orange carpet. My sister's oldest boy, a frightened 2 year old, was standing next to the paint can in tears and everybody went into full panic mode. We put the youngest boy, still pretty much a newborn on the floor and jumped over him to get towels. Mom had left the house to get something from the store just before it happened, and we were all terrified that she was going to go nuclear on us. As we were frantically trying to wipe up the mess, I heard her car. My brother said, "Tell her we're out of milk." So I ran out to the porch and yelled to mom as she was getting out of the car that we needed milk for the baby. She nodded, got back in the car and went to the store. I don't remember how many times or how many other things we asked for. At some point, the jig was up. She knew we were hiding something, and stormed into the house. At first she didn't say anything. We all rushed to explain, talking over each other. She picked up the baby, said something about "Just clean it up" and went into the kitchen to feed him. We were all thunderstruck. This was not the reaction any of us had expected. I guess she had imagined so much worse, that a little paint didn't look like anything. The baby was hungry. That's what mattered.
It's hard to remember this version of my mother. One of my earliest memories was walking behind her trying to walk with my feet turned out like she did. There is part of my psyche that still adores her and always will. I shove that part to the back of my mind most of the time. It's easier on my heart to remember the stuff that wasn't so good. The later couple of years that were all depression and fighting. But this was the mom I knew growing up. She was loving and warm and a mother to her bone marrow. She loved her family above anything else. And I miss her every single day. And I curse her every single day. I blame her for everything that happened after, but most of all for taking the mom I loved away from me and replacing her with nothing but a gunshot.
And that's why I hate Mothers Day.
I guess I need to start off with what I always do. Her beauty. She was the kind of beautiful that stopped men in the street. I saw it happen for real when she took me to Chicago for my 13th birthday. When she was 50 years old, 20 year old students were still asking her out. She wasn't photogenic, so I don't have a picture that really captures it, but trust me on this, she was the kind of beautiful that stopped traffic.
And she had the best voice I've ever heard. Something like June Allyson's. It always reminded be of soft-serve vanilla ice cream. Cool and warm at the same time. I only tended to notice when she was comforting me after some accident or another. I was that kid who fell down a lot, and got sick at least a couple of times a year. She'd talk to me gently and rest her wrist on my forehead. If I was stuck in bed, she'd read to me in that voice and really there was nothing better in the world. I still love Scruffy the Ape, cause she'd laugh out loud and do funny voices when she was reading it.
She was a warm and loving human being at her core. She once dissolved in tears when I said something to the effect that I was a child she never should have had. "You don't understand. Each one of you kids was loved and wanted very much." I never had cause to doubt that she loved me, and all my brothers and sisters, and her grandchildren. Especially her grandchildren. She adored those kids and spent hours talking about how cute and funny they were, and their little personality quirks.
She had various stomach troubles and would sip still-liquid jell-o in bed. I'd sit on the edge of the bed and prattle on about this boy at school or that opinion of the universe. Patient and kind, no matter what amount of pain she was in, she'd nod and listen with full attention as if any of it was as important as I thought it was at the time. And when I sailed onto to some other crush or subject, she'd just go with it and smile.
When I think of the positive stuff, I remember sitting with her in the kitchen, watching the boats out the bay window. I think it was a bay window. Not completely sure anymore. But we'd sit together at the little cafe table we had in the kitchen and just chat. It was lovely. After she died, I would have dreams of sitting at that table with her, but I couldn't hear her voice. My therapist told me to turn the sound up, like on a TV. When I did, I expected to hear something life-changing. I didn't. It was just the sound of her voice talking about how pretty the sunlight on the water was. It was a lovely memory.
She definitely loved me, but also had some trouble connecting with me. My fault, not hers. I wasn't what she expected me to be and that confused both of us. So she tried signing us up for classes to build a stronger relationship. Cake decorating, which she had a flair for. Pottery painting, which I really loved although it would have killed me to admit it. Flower arranging, didn't suit either of us, but we tried.
She was proud of my playing piano and going to a boarding\music school was her idea. Forcefully her idea. But I'm trying to focus on the positive stuff. She came to visit me at school on my 16th birthday. She and Grandma Fran took me to the local department store and told me I could have anything I wanted. When I picked a teddy bear, she dissolved in tears again.
Back in middle school, I pulled a classic, "Mom, I have to bring 30 baked goods in for home ec tomorrow." I still remember the look on her face, somewhere between anger, shock, and amusement. She taught me how to make pizza twists (dough with pizza sauce rolled in) and stayed up most of the night to make sure it got done. I do not remember staying up that night. I remember that she did. I think we did the first two batches together and then she sent me to bed.
I remember she had an 8-track of the Paint Your Wagon soundtrack in the car. We'd turn it up and sing along. Her favorite was Wandrin' Star. Mine was I Talk to the Trees. I remember her teaching me to drive and telling me that I had to go faster than the speed limit or I'd get run over. And I remember how frustrated\amused she was when Kent came to visit and he wouldn't turn left if traffic was coming. She didn't actually call him a hick, but she did say he was obviously raised in the country.
The day I had my first car accident it was in her car. I was actually going to get her paycheck from the hospital because she didn't feel well. I only had a learners permit and I crashed head on into another car trying to make a left turn. Totalled the other car and the driver had to go to the hospital. Oddly enough she was exactly my age, driving her mother's car on a learners permit. She was fine, but scared to death what her mom was going to do. The cops brought me home. My mom was waiting at the door with a glass of whiskey and a valium, which she popped into my mouth before I could utter a sound, then told me to wash it down with the stuff in the glass. I have no further memories of that day. As a friend said, Mom to the Rescue!
I remember when we moved into the river house, there was a bright orange carpet in the living room. We were painting the walls white, well, my sister was. She had brought her baby boys with her and and I was supposed to be babysitting. Somehow, I turned around to see a full gallon of white paint had spilled right in the center of the bright orange carpet. My sister's oldest boy, a frightened 2 year old, was standing next to the paint can in tears and everybody went into full panic mode. We put the youngest boy, still pretty much a newborn on the floor and jumped over him to get towels. Mom had left the house to get something from the store just before it happened, and we were all terrified that she was going to go nuclear on us. As we were frantically trying to wipe up the mess, I heard her car. My brother said, "Tell her we're out of milk." So I ran out to the porch and yelled to mom as she was getting out of the car that we needed milk for the baby. She nodded, got back in the car and went to the store. I don't remember how many times or how many other things we asked for. At some point, the jig was up. She knew we were hiding something, and stormed into the house. At first she didn't say anything. We all rushed to explain, talking over each other. She picked up the baby, said something about "Just clean it up" and went into the kitchen to feed him. We were all thunderstruck. This was not the reaction any of us had expected. I guess she had imagined so much worse, that a little paint didn't look like anything. The baby was hungry. That's what mattered.
It's hard to remember this version of my mother. One of my earliest memories was walking behind her trying to walk with my feet turned out like she did. There is part of my psyche that still adores her and always will. I shove that part to the back of my mind most of the time. It's easier on my heart to remember the stuff that wasn't so good. The later couple of years that were all depression and fighting. But this was the mom I knew growing up. She was loving and warm and a mother to her bone marrow. She loved her family above anything else. And I miss her every single day. And I curse her every single day. I blame her for everything that happened after, but most of all for taking the mom I loved away from me and replacing her with nothing but a gunshot.
And that's why I hate Mothers Day.