My Mother

In honor of Mother’s Day

The best way to talk about my mother is to describe what she DOES.

1. My Mother: “The Periwinkle Dishes”

Last year, I moved into my own apartment after living with the same woman for 9 years. It was a huge adjustment, and very exciting, and thanks to Craig’s List I found an amazing situation for myself. My mother was so excited for me, so involved. She came down and went through the whole move with me … It was her contention that as long as, by the first night, your kitchen and your bathroom are all set up – you will be fine. So even as my movers were lugging my furniture all about, my mother was tearing through boxes marked “KITCHEN” and “BATHROOM” – and hurriedly putting things away – scrubbing the tub, scrubbing the insides of cabinets – all while I was consumed with playing Traffic Cop for my movers. My mother made the transition unbelievably calming. I was so grateful to have her there.

But more on this whole move:

My dishes/pots/pans have always been hand-me-downs, unimportant. I buy crap dishes at flea markets, I don’t have a ‘set’ of anything, I am a loser. Whatever. I’m broke. I don’t care.

But as my move approached, my mother got it into her head that I should have a nice set of dishes. I should have a pattern that I wanted, I should pick out dinnerware for myself – with no concern for cost.

I’m not married. Married people get that stuff at their shower. But what happens if you never get married, AND if you have no money? Does that mean you never get to have a nice set of dishes that you like?

So my mother took me out shopping. Basically, it was like my own personal shower. We had such a good time together – she took me to shops in Rhode island, and I picked out all the stuff I liked. Stuff that spoke to me.

I picked these great big chunky plates, painted this heavenly color – a periwinkle blue. I picked these tall water glasses, with autumn leaves wrapping around them. I picked placemats- a pale lavendar color. I also got the silverware I wanted – nice solid silver. (I’ve always had crappy silverware – I never could justify the cost – I’d buy 10 crappy forks at a church flea market and call it a day.) So I cherish my beautiful silverware that my mother bought me.

We were both suffused with girlie excitement.

But let me tell you the deeper thing: I was so MOVED at how MUCH my mother wanted to give me something. It meant the WORLD to her – to give me what I wanted – to hear me say, “Oh, aren’t these pretty?” (about the autumn leaf glasses) – and then be able to say, “Let’s get a couple of them. You like them. Let’s get them.”

As is probably obvious, I am stridently independent and have been on my own for a long time. It is not often that my mother gets to GIVE like that to me, and it meant so much to her.

it’s hard for me to accept gifts – but I also could feel, in my heart, how happy it made her to be able to give me something I wanted. So i was able to accept.

I’m not describing well enough how moving this was for me. I am in tears as I write this.

But here’s the coda to this whole story about my dishes – and why I wanted to write about this in the first place:

A month or so later, my parents drove down to New York, to all of us who live here, and to see what I had done to my place. My mother had already seen my apartment, my father had not.

Now as I write this, I am fully aware that there are people on this earth (many of my friends included) who have parents who could not give two shits about “seeing” their child’s “new place”. Some people just don’t have that parental involvement in their lives. I do. And my God. My God. I am fully aware of how blessed I am. How amazing my parents are. Truly. When I was in my 20s, trying to break free, it felt like a burden, at times. Like: “Jesus, other parents aren’t so INVOLVED….why are MINE???” But now, of course, I see how fortunate I am. And was.

My parents arrived. I was so excited to have them see my place, to have my dad see it for the first time, to have my mom see what I had done to it. I loved being able to have them both sit in my kitchen, to serve them drinks, to be all set up.

My father took one look around my main room – with the hard wood floor, the ceiling fan, the patterned ceiling, and the PILES AND PILES OF BOOKS – and said, in his understated calm way, nodding his approval, “Good. Good.”

BUT. I KEEP SIDETRACKING MYSELF. What I want to talk about is my mother.

I was in the kitchen with my mother, so excited to show her what I had done, how I had set things up, where I had put things.

And this is what is extraordinary about this woman – or one of the many extraordinary things:

NOTHING was boring to her. NOTHING was beneath her.

I know mothers who are bossy, who come into their child’s space and immediately re-arrange things, or criticize. I know these kinds of mothers. Bitchy petty controlling mothers. My mother could not be petty if you paid her a million dollars. My mother would turn it down. She would not do it. Her inner compass is too strong.

If her child is excited about something, then she is excited. (Well, let me re-phrase. If I came to her and said, “Omigod, I am so excited about how much blow I am doing right now!!” she would not be excited. She’s no pushover.)

I opened my cupboard and said, smiling, “And here are my dishes!!”

Now: reminder: SHE had bought me those dishes. She had already SEEN those dishes!!

And yet – there she was – she took one of the dishes out, and said, “Oh, gosh, they are so pretty.”

I don’t think I’m describing this right. I am sitting here with tears running down my face, and I don’t feel that I’m describing this.

Let me try to get clear:

She was the one who bought me the dishes. She had already seen them. And yet she was excited to see them placed in my new cupboard. She was right there with me, in my excitement.

Here is what that moment with the Periwinkle Dishes meant to me, and what it says about my mother:

My mother is ALWAYS doing her best. ALWAYS. I cannot say that I am always doing my best. There are many times when I am jealous, when I am bitter, when I let negativity overcome me. But my mother – without EVER being a pious righteous woman (and that’s the whole point – that’s the whole point) is ALWAYS doing her best. In every moment in life, we are faced with a choice: Should I go the high road or the low road? My mother probably knows better than I do, but I have never known her to take the low road.

I am not saying that she is perfect. Of course not. But I am saying that she is always doing her best in any given moment. Always. It has taken me YEARS to realize this about her. YEARS.

Another mother would have either scoffed at my dish placement, or would have squashed my excitement, “Yes, I know what they look like. After all, I paid an arm and a leg for them.”

My mother just ooohed and aahed over how pretty they looked in my cupboard.

I’m crying.

2. My mother: “The 2nd Call”

My mother is a painter. If you look over at my “Friends/Family’ section in the sidebar, you can see a link to two of her paintings. She has tons more, however.

I’m so proud of her for the work she has done.

My sister Jean bought my mom watercolor classes with one of my mother’s favorite watercolorists – who lives on Block Island. This artist illustrates children’s books, but my mom picked out her work as something above ordinary. And indeed it is.

Anyway, my sister Jean bought her a series of classes with this woman out on Block Island a couple of years ago.

My mom took the ferry out to Block Island. It was February or something like that. A bleak and bitter month, when the ferries are empty, and Block Island itself is desolate and empty. My mom gets off at the dock and goes to where the class is supposed to be – and there is a sign on the door. Something along the lines of:

“The watercolor series with so-and-so has been canceled due to lack of interest.” (I am sure my family can correct me on the details here. Basically, 2 people had signed up for the class or something, so the class was canceled.)

My mom was then stranded on Block Island for the next 5 hours. In the winter the ferries only run twice a day, as opposed to every hour on the hour in the summer. Nothing was open. My mom didn’t know what to do with herself. She had all her painting gear, nowhere to go, she bought a coffee, but … what, she was gonna sit in a coffee shop for the next 5 hours???

So then, my mom decided, in one of those random bursts of courage that can change your life, to look up the watercolorists number, give her a call, and see when she would be holding her next class. Why not, right?? Nothing to be scared of!!

My mom huddled at a pay phone (really, until you have been to Block Island in the middle of the winter, you cannot imagine the bleakness, the desolation) – looked in a phone book, found the number, and called.

And oh my God, this woman answered.

(This would be like me randomly giving Gena Rowlands a call. If you don’t know who she is, Google her. Let’s just say: she’s the best there is.)

So the watercolorist answered. “Hello?”

My mom, now suddenly having to DEAL, blundered something about: “Yes, I just heard your class was cancelled … Will you be doing another one soon?”

They had a very brief (and cordial conversation) – with the watercolorist assuring my mother (huddled on the edge of a grey windy beach, with the surf blowing into her face) “We’ll do another one this summer, maybe.”

My mom accepted this and hung up.

But didn’t walk away from the phone.

She just stood there. By the phone. She still had 4 hours and 50 minutes to kill. She just stood there by the phone. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. And then she did it.

She picked up the phone and called the watercolorist again.

The watercolorist answered. “Hello?”

My mom, (shit, man, she is my hero in this moment) said, probably awkwardly, probably nervously, “Hi … yes … I took the ferry here today … thinking we would have class … and since it’s cancelled … I have about 5 hours to kill … and I was wondering … if maybe I could … come and have a private class with you this afternoon?”

(This is probably not exactly what she said. I wasn’t there. but basically, my mom asked if she could “come over”. If you knew my mom, you would know that this was a huge deal. It would be like me calling Gena Rowlands and saying, “Hey, I’m in Greenwich, can I come over and show you my As You Like It monologue??”)

But this famous watercolorist said Yes. Sure. My mother could most definitely come over. She gave my mom directions (which my mom wrote down like a lunatic – the directions were along the lines of: “At the green mailbox, turn left … drive down a long dirt road … when you see the 2 birdfeeders, take a right…” (Basically, they were very scary directions.)

But when you are in the presence of greatness, you mustn’t ask them to slow down for you.

My mom had that instinct. Okay, fine. I am already imposing. I will figure out how to get there.

And she did. My mom somehow found a cab in the grey wilderness of Block Island, gave the cabbie the directions, (he probably know exactly the house anyway, it’s that kind of island) –

And my mom showed at the door of her idol’s house (well, at least, her LIVING idol. Winslow Homer and Edward Hopper are dead!) – the watercolorist greeted her at the door – let her in – and my mom had a 2 hour private tutorial with this woman.

Again, I am strangely moved by all of this. I have tears in my eyes as I write this.

The watercolorist showed my mom through her studio. Showed my mom all the things she had been working on. Then, my mom took out her portfolio and showed it to the watercolorist. The watercolorist looked at my mom’s works, gave her criticisms, gave her tips (like: PRACTICAL tips, not airy-fairy “release your inner goddess” tips – but REAL tips – stuff my mom can use) – and then, after hours of this … my mom called another cab, and left to catch the ferry home. Exhilarated. HIGH. High on HERSELF.

Later, when she told me this whole story – my mom said something that I think is so profound. Something I have remembered myself in moments where I feel stuck, or intimidated, or like: Okay, the door just slammed in my face, I should walk away now.

My mom said to me, after telling me the whole story, “And … it was that second call, Sheila, that made all the difference. It was the second call.”

How many of us turn away from making “that second call” in life? How many of us, when faced with an initial disappointment or rejection, take the “No” for a “No”? How many of us do not make that “second call”?

3. My Mother: “Is he a famous person?”

I have a new friend who is famous. Last summer, my family and I went and spent a week on the Cape, and he and Allison (another friend) drove up for a night. My brother and 2 sisters were all a-twitter, “Holy shit, I cannot believe that [famous-person] is coming up to our beach house….WHAT?????” My parents had no idea who he was. Which was fine, but my siblings were kind of freaking out. So famous-friend and Allison arrive – and are immediately bombarded with O’Malley-ness. My nephew Cashel immediately shot famous-friend with his laser gun, and famous-friend staggered about in a mock death, earning Cashel’s love and approbation. My sisters, who are the coolest women imaginable, completely did not treat famous-friend with any weirdness, or ask for his autograph, or act like boneheads – even though I KNEW they were SCREAMING inside.

We swam in the ocean, by the light of the moon. My dad and famous-friend had a long talk on the beach. We all went swimming in the path of the moon, bobbing about hilariously, talking. My dad called out to famous-friend, who had swum out of the light of the moon path, “Please come back into the light…” Famous-friend obeyed.

It was a magical night.

Later, my 2 sisters, famous-friend, Allison, and I sat out on the porch and played Taboo until 2 in the morning.

It was only after famous-friend left that Jean said, flatly, “I cannot believe that I just played Taboo with [famous-name].”

But this is a story about my mother. I just wanted to give context.

Because my mom had no idea who he was, she treated him with such down-to-earth kindness, such openness – that he still references it. He still asks about everyone, he also invited himself to come along on our next family outing. He, a celebrity, is unused to kindness with no-strings attached. He sat at the table with my loud raucous family, eating corn on the cob, talking with my dad about books, authors, laughing, loving to be with all of us. He wrote to me later and said he had never had such a beautiful vacation in his life. I took that as a high high compliment, knowing the kinds of vacations he takes.

In the bosom of my family, he found kindness and acceptance. Regardless.

Once he had gone, my sisters could shriek and giggle about their time with famous man. “I cannot WAIT to tell my friends!!” (But I loved that they were ultra-cool and casual when meeting him though. Totally like: “Hey, man, what’s up … whatever .. wanna go swimming?” The second he was gone, they FREAKED.)

And my mom, standing in the kitchen, said, cautiously, after he left, “Now … is he a famous person?”

Jean said bluntly, “Yes. He is famous.”

My mom nodded, pondering this, and then went back to whatever it was she was doing.

Like I said earlier: My mom ALWAYS does her best. She doesn’t do her best because you are a celebrity. She doesn’t do her best because she’s a “front-pew Catholic” and wants to feel like she is better than you. She’s not working on a point system.

She liked my famous friend because he was my FRIEND, not because he was famous. The two of them washed the dishes together after dinner, and she talked to him like he was a normal person, and – I cannot tell you what a lasting difference it has made to this man. He lives in a crazy world, of insincerity, of falsity, of people trying to be nice to him because they want something from him.

My mom doesn’t care about all of that. It’s not that she’s a sucker, and would be nice to anyone. Oh, no, not at all. My mother is no fool, and she is perfectly willing to call a spade a spade.

But she loved this guy because he loved me, and because he accepted being with our family, and he played with Cashel, and he was down-to-earth, and intelligent – and also because she trusts me. I invited him, and she trusts my judgment. Obviously he must be a nice person, because my child invited him.

Anyway, I haven’t edited any of this, or even re-read it, and I know my mom might be embarrassed by some of this –

but I just want to say to you, Mum: You are an extraordinary human being, and during pretty much every conversation I have with you I learn, on a deeper level, how to be a better woman, a braver woman, a kinder woman, and I could not do it without you.

I am so proud of you, proud to call you my mother.