All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his.
-Oscar Wilde
I knew at an early age that my mom was more than a sympathetic ear during difficult situations and much more than an ombudsman by keeping my foolish antics from my father so that I wouldn't be beaten within an inch of my life.
My mom also served as protectorate general of the houshold when dad was away, as evidenced by her almost shooting me with a 12-guage shotgun when I tried to slip back in at 3am after leaving an overnight sleepover at a friend's house.
As I recall, I even immortalized her heroic actions in a hand written Mother's Day card that my 6th grade teacher assigned as a classroom activity that year. It read:
"Dear Mom,
Thanks for your love and support and for not shooting and killing me in the foyer two months ago.
Love,
Jim
This is the precise moment in time when I KNEW that I had been blessed with the gift of effective writing skills because two social workers took particular interest in this card.
My mom was special indeed. She always encouraged me to chase my dreams, she taught me how to cook, she bailed me and my friends, Raul and Keith, out of jail when we thought it to be a good idea to Xerox our bare asses on a grocery store copy machine at age 18 at 2 o' clock in the morning. (I'm sure that she never shared THOSE pictures with her lady friends at the tea party).
Recently, my writer friend, Marie, asked if I might take some bullet-point notes from her and construct a special Mother's Day message that she planned on including in a gift basket for her mom.
Since Marie works closely with me and knows me well, I was absolutely shocked that she asked me to write such a special note, but, because she is a friend, I felt that I was equal to the task.
Here are the bullet-points, as dictated by Marie:
- Wherever you are, you're in my heart
- We've had our differences
- I know you had hopes and dreams for me
- I remember sitting on your lap when you read to me
- You cared for me when I got hurt
- You were there for me on my first day of school
- My first prom
- Graduating college
- My first real job
With bullet-points in hand, and personal knowledge of Marie and her life (outside the confines of her bullet-points) I quietly sat at a pub with computer in tow. I gazed out the window on a peaceful afternoon and crafted a letter that I felt appropriate for her to submit to mom on her special day.
Dear mom,
Wherever you are this Mother' Day, I hope you know that you're in my heart. That I don't know where you are makes me less of a person than my older sister...I want you to know that I'm still trying really hard to live up to failed expectations.
I know that we've had our differences over the years, but you've been there for me from the beginning...even though my brother regularly informed me that I was an accident, borne from an evening of indiscretion after a Whitesnake concert, you were STILL there for me!
When I was born and you looked down into my baby blue eyes, marveling at the miracle that is new life; I'm sure you had hopes and dreams for me, as any mother would. Have I lived up to them? I've certainly tried and my therapist tells me that this is an important step.
As you sat me on your lap and read to me, did you daydream about all the places I would go? Even though my brother, William, and my sister, Kristen, studied abroad and now live in West Los Angeles and Paris, France, respectively, I have been to some fantastic places throughout the Mid and Deep south. (By the way, I've enclosed a personalized airbrushed t-shirt that I purchased in Destin, Florida...I hope it's the correct size).
I know you wanted the best for me and I couldn't ask for anything more. With the exception that I wish that you and dad would have taken me seriously about Uncle Robert when I came to you.
When I fell and scraped my knees and elbows, you wiped away my tears...as Dad and William called me a pathetic p*ssy. I hope you didn't blame yourself when I got hurt. I blame dad. My therapist calls this transferrence and I'm working really hard on it.
What was it like when you sent me off to preschool? And what about the first day you dropped me off at kindergarten? Did you tear up as you sat in the car, thinking about how quickly the years (which included numerous school-yard beatings and an inappropriate moment between me and Ms. Campbell, the gym teacher) had passed? Or did you worry about whether I would make friends and/or become a lesbian?
I made friends, mom, but no one could take the place of you...even though dad feels differently on the matter.
Were you proud at the parent-teacher conference when I had straight A's? My teachers said you were; my classmates called me an ass-kisser, but that NEVER deterred me from pushing upward.
When I went to sleepovers at friends' houses, were you worried that I would get into trouble? I promise I never did, because, thanks to my friend, Angel Harbsmier, I used condoms. I didn't want to let you down. (By the way, Angel is back in the battered women's shelter...so sad.)
Did it break your heart to see me cry when I was hurting? Thank you for letting me crawl into your lap and for chastising William and dad for calling me a pathetic P*ssy. Thank you so much for telling me that everything would be, relatively, OK.
You were, somewhat, right.
When I found the dress for my first dance, was it magical for you like it was for me? Did you marvel at how quickly I was growing up? I know that my date, Chad Griffith, certainly did. But, that's a long story.
When I graduated from high school, did you wonder where the time had gone? In retrospect, I now fully appreciate that you and dad pushed me out of the house and changed the locks.
Did I resemble the kind of person you had hoped to raise? I hope I did, no matter what my brother, Billy, says. You know why? Because he's a dick!! Ooops...that's the transference thing again.
Were you excited for me when I called you to tell you about my new job? Was it everything you had hoped for me? I think it was. Where else can you make $1,000 per night? Those were the most exciting moments of my life.
Did it make you proud to see me walking across the stage in my dark blue robe, and to hear my name called out in front of thousands of people as I graduated from college? I did it for you...even though it took eight and a half years, I'm glad that I stuck with the Art History degree.
When I have a daughter of my own one day, I will likely pull a Susan Smith and kill her...but, in case I don't, what will I want for her? Will the world be enough? Was it enough for you? According to dad, it wasn't. I visited with him at the apartment where he stays above that grocery store the other day..but I don't want to bum you out.
To you, then, mom, on Mother's Day. Thank you and I love you...even if dad doesn't.
Love, always,
Marie
Marie didn't think much of my scribbles but she thanked me for my time anyway, and I asked if I might be able to see her naked. She politely declined.
On this special day for mothers everywhere...including my own, who is no longer with us, I wish you a happy day. Please know that you hold a special place and the debt that is owed to you can never be fully repaid (especially the tuition loans). What we CAN, and must, offer is to never, ever, miss an opportunity to utter three simple words...
I love you.
Sincerely,
James Patrick
copyright Pontchartrain Press, 2013
Author's Note: This piece is dedicated to one of the hardest working moms in the biz...Michelle.
