Mother's Day Contest

My mom asked me to enter a Mother's Day Essay contest so she could win a massage.
On the day of the deadline, somewhere between emails and phone calls, I snuck in a little time at work to dash off a few words. I don't think it's a marvel of modern literature. But, through some miracle I won. And Mom won.

So, here is that essay:

"Some women are born great mothers. They seem to pop out of the womb with an apron around their waist, freshly baked cookies in their hands and a yen to nurture in their hearts. Other women learn to be great mothers. My Mom is in the latter category.

Mom doesn’t bake. She uses her oven for storage. Really. She may not resemble the idyllic Donna Reed Mom archetype, but Mom is an astounding woman and an amazing mother.

My Mom wasn’t built to be a soccer Mom. Her own mother died when she was only 10. (And from what I hear, was not exactly peach before she passed.) From then on, she was shipped and shuffled to boarding schools and reformatories. When she came home, she was a guest. So, her exposure to positive parental role models was limited.

Though unfashionable at the time, she didn’t fantasize about 3.5 kids and a suburban tract home. She wanted a career. And she got it. She worked her way up and was the first female VP in her corporation (in the 1970s when such a thing was rare). She left that position to start her own company and has been the President of that empire ever since. She’s been on TV, written books and spoken at podiums in front of thousands of people.

And somewhere in that mix, after 8 years of marriage, my father talked her into having a baby. And because life is funny this way, as soon as I was born, they divorced
So, she not only became a mother, she became a single mother. With a full-time job. And absolutely no idea what she was doing.

But, she learned quickly.

She apologizes now for the long hours working and for not being able to give me all of the things my affluent friends had. But, I don’t remember any of that. All I remember is that she always tucked me in at night. She always read me to sleep. She always made me feel safe and happy and loved. And that’s all the stuff that really matters anyway.

Although being affectionate is wonderful, the greatest gifts my Mom ever gave to me are her strength and humor. I call my Mom the Iron Pixie. She’s warm and giggly and fun, but don’t let that fool you. When push comes to shove, Mom is downright unsinkable. She has taught me what it means to stand up, survive, overcome and find the gift, the gratitude and the funny part in it all.

When I was 10 years old and Mom was my whole Universe, we got some news. Mom was diagnosed with bladder cancer and given a 2% chance of survival.

Time stood still. I remember barely choking out the words, “Are you going to die?” And Mom grabbed my chin, looked straight into my eyes and said, “Absolutely not. Nothing, I mean NOTHING is going to take me away from you.”

And she meant it. That year was a big year. She quit her fancy job. She started eating a bland, but cancer-fighting macrobiotic diet. She painted my room pink with me. BIG things.

And then she beat cancer.

And 15 years after that, cancer popped up somewhere else and she beat it AGAIN.

And that’s how Mom is. She may face challenges, but she is never defeated.

Mom manages to handle scary things with a light touch. She doesn’t get bleak or despondent. I think at her glummest moment in cancer #2 she said, “You know, honey, sometimes these cancers really piss me off.” And that was it. Otherwise, she saw the hospital as a great time to catch up on sleep, see old friends and get up to date with all the trashy celebrity mags.

Unsinkable.

Great mothers come in a lot of packages. Some drive minivans and cook like Martha Stewart. That’s not my Mom. Mom didn’t teach me to knit. But, she has taught me what it means to have an inconquerable spirit, to be bigger than your circumstances and how to keep the world funny side up.

For all she is and all she’s done, please massage this lady!"

Quick Conversations with Mom: Tina Fey's Bossypants

I mumble and my mother has fuzzy hearing. This winning combination leads to some of my favorite phone conversations.
Here's a recent single from our miscommunication hit parade:

Me: I'm reading Tina Fey's Bossypants.

Mom: What word are you saying?

Me: Bossypants.

Mom: Pissy clams?

Me: (Choking on laughter) BOSSY. PANTS.

Mom: Oh. PUSSY clamps.

Me: No. Not Pussy clamps! BOSSY. PANTS.

Mom: With a P??

Me: Pants is with a P.

Mom: Pussy pants?

Me: No! Not pussy. Bossy.

Mom: P like Paul?

Me: B like Bossy.

(No response.)

And Brandy.

Mom: Oh! B!! BUSTY pants!

Me: Bossy.

Mom: Who?

Me: Like a boss. B-O-S-S.

Mom: Ohhh!! BOSSYPANTS. Ooookay.

Me: Okay.

Mom: Now, who is Tunaface?
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In conclusion...If you're in the mood for a good read, I highly recommend Tunaface Pussy Clamps.

The Perfect Gift

My mother has given me many gifts in my life. She started out on a roll. Right away she gave me internal organs, eyes and a kick-ass cerebral cortex - all excellent gifts; very thoughtful and personal. But, every year since then, her skills as a gift-giver have dissipated.

I'd like to say up front that it isn't about the money. I don't care about the price of a gift and furthermore, she has money. She isn't a single mother of 12, just doing the best she can to make 4 twigs a piece yarn look like that bike we really want. She comes from a family with live-in maids and...I'm her only kid. Still, I've endured a cavalcade of wrapped disappointments.

The sad thing is that there's a always a big wind-up. She masterfully builds anticipation. She talks about "the big gift" for days. She drops hints about what "the big gift" will be. She makes me open presents in a certain order all leading up to "the big gift."

And what is "the big gift"? Well, in my historical mental slide-show, it's a compilation of pre-used as-seen-on-TV products (things she bought for herself, opened, used and then grew tired of), half-off services to her friend's businesses (because every 8-year-old is in the market for new carpet), coupons for psychic readings (Oy), self-esteem cards (How perfect...It's a gift AND an insult!), various stolen or used bath products (Thank you, Hilton) personalized astrological charts (I wish I were kidding) and one frog-shaped sleeping bag (ribbit). Pure gems.

As awe-inspiring and amazing as these treasures are, they can only be eclipsed by her attempts to buy me clothing as "the big gift". I could list a litany of wardrobe horrors my mother has foisted on me (men's workout shorts "with cup included!" comes to mind), but my favorite was from my 11th birthday.

Filled with hope and excitement, I tore open the wrapping, lifted up the box, peeled apart the tissue paper to discover every little girl's fantasy gift...a leather biker vest and matching black, leather shorts.

Sure.

That's appropriate.

I was, afterall, in a dangerous, rebel 6th grade motorcycle club and had been begging her all season for quality bitch gear.

And with black leather shorts, you have that perfect article of clothing for days when you happen to be standing in a 4" high arctic draft that only blows at ass level...but it's still too hot for pants.

And a vest?
A vest of any kind is retarded. Who are these people who only get cold on their torsos? I want to meet them - and tear off their arms; their useless, desensitized skin wings - and donate them to robots; needy, armless robots.

Jackets are readily available for reasonable prices. Why would anyone opt for a vest?
And it's black leather. And I'm 11.
None of this equation works. What on earth was she thinking?

Her only response to my shock-riddled little face was, "You should be grateful. Leather is very expensive."

So is therapy. Trust me. And I'll need a lot more of it if I walked out of the house in the Harley Davidson pre-teen rape kit she bought me.

So, I've given up up Mom's presents.
I've stoppped hoping. I smile and nod while she hands me a gift bag and remain pleasant and non-plussed when I discover the scented candle shaped like a cat.

"Because you like candles and you HAVE A CAT!" she'll say with glee.

And I just hug and thank her.
We've turned her giftscapades into family lore. We laugh about it and I've learned to keep expectations low.

So, this year, on my birthday, just days ago, I stood outside Mom's car as she handed me a gift bag.

"Now don't get all excited." she sputtered. "You know how I am with gifts. Just know that it's the thought that counts."

I smiled benignly and thanked her for in advance for thinking of me.

With a braced sigh, I opened the bag.

I peeled back the paper and read the words, "Nintendo Wii".

My mind couldn't comprehend what my eyes saw.

A Wii. I actually WANT a Wii. Arguably, I NEED a Wii (not like one needs a kidney, but, you know, it makes indoor tennis a whole lot easier and less destructive).

Before I asked the next question, she answered it.

"Yes, it's not just the box. There's actually a Wii inside"

"And--?"

"It's not used. Or borrowed. or stolen."

"And--?"

"It's not off-market or from a trunk in Chinatown. I bought it new. In a real store. With a receipt and everything."

I thought I might cry.

It took 35 years, but she got it right.

Then she handed a smaller bag. Inside, were stolen hotel soaps and decorative kid-sized sponges in the shape of stars.

Perfect.