Dear Mom

  

Dear Mom,

Today I watched a friend's child for a couple hours and learned a few things. First, she finds her father's toes frightening for some reason. Also, she told me "I like my mom better than anyone else in the whole world." I tackled the mom thing first. "You like your mommy best of all because you spend the most time with her," I told her. That made me realize that although I've railed against being a stay-at-home mom for the past twelve years, there's no one else I'd rather be liked by than my own children. Some friendships fade after some time. But a relationship with your kids lasts forever. Let's just cross our fingers that my kids will always love me, even when they can't stand to be seen with me.  

My friend's child thought about this for a minute, then said, "Yeah, but I still don't like my Dad's toes." This made me think of David Sedaris comparing his mother's toes to Fritos. It also made me think about your advice to get a pedicure, which I've never tried for fear of scaring the manicurist. After all, my feet have elicited such comments as, "Ew, gross!" and "What's wrong with your feet?" and "What is that?" (said with hand covering mouth as if in the early stages of vomiting, while pointing at my bunions, those large bulbous thingies next to my big toes.) I try to keep my feet at least partially hidden at all times. But I suppose if handling people's feet is your job, you must keep such comments to yourself. 

Luckily, I was able to cut her off at the next conversational pass, in which she was explaining why she refuses to kiss her mom goodbye, the woman she said a few minutes earlier was her favorite person in the whole world. "It's sooo embarrassing," this four year-old said in dramatic tones. 

On the way over, I had seen a dead bumblebee on the sidewalk and made a mental note to show it to her on the return trip to my house. It had rained all morning and the bee body was soaked, yet still fluffy, and the colors were brilliant. I told her that I had a surprise for her. But when she found out it was just a dead bug, she said something that sounded like, "Humph," and began chattering again. 

"No, look at it," I said, pointing with my shoe. She fell silent and leaned closer to the bee. I enjoyed the brief conversational reprieve, the smell of rain and worms, the sound of the birds singing in the trees. She had just started to tell me that someone in her family turned into a monster on a regular basis, which she attributed to some DNA cross wiring. As I am not a scientific person, I had no desire to get into the details of DNA, which are mostly a mystery to me, other than the fact that bunions can be inherited, along with an insatiable appetite for sweets. But also, I think we can inherit good things, like the ability to bake said sweets, and the emotional strength to withstand a lifetime of foot taunting. 

I showed her the bee's legs. "Look at how its legs are curled," I said. The bee lay on its back, its shiny legs curled under its dark face, like a dog begging for scraps. I rolled the bee over with my shoe (a part of me feared it wasn't actually dead, and given the opportunity would make a literal beeline for me) and the little girl drew back, placed her hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Oh." The bee looked almost cuddly with its fuzzy yellow and black stripes all puffed up. He was a little on the chubby side, too. But with that enormous black head, slightly ominous too. The closer we got to him, the more we could imagine him springing back to life. How could anything with colors like that be dead? I wondered aloud. 

It was a good afternoon, filled with baking brownies, listening to children's music about dinosaurs and doodle bugs, and painting pictures of trees with watercolors. You know, stuff you did with us when we were kids, and stuff my kids will no longer do with me. I had not realized how quiet the house had become without little ones, and how empty. I am surprised to find myself feeling this way, seeing as how I had ached to be alone when I was going bonkers with babies. But it turns out that being alone can get a little lonely. Who knew?    

It's night time as I write this. I have opened the window so I can hear the birds and, if I'm lucky, a bit of rain, too. But the rain has stopped and it's quiet, save the deep breathing of my husband next to me and an occasional sleep-muttering from the boys' room. And then the rain starts.  It begins so suddenly and thoroughly, that at first I think it must be the wind. Quite often canyon winds sweep through our neighborhood trees, sounding a lot like God shuffling an enormous deck of cards. Sometimes when the wind blows like this, I close my eyes and pretend that I'm out camping. There's a vague memory floating around in my head of being a little girl in Colorado on a family camp out and waking up in a green canvas tent. The morning air is crisp and cold and clean and somewhere nearby I can hear water gurgling over rocks. A breeze shimmies through the trees as I peek through the tent door. I think it sounds like the tissue paper Santa always puts in our gift boxes. I see you at the picnic table, pulling food out of a cooler for breakfast. You wear a sweatshirt zipped to the top with the hood pulled over your black wavy hair. Your dark eyes are frowzy at the edges when you look at me, and then they get all crinkly as you smile and say, "Morning, Susie." At that moment, I realize that I love you better than anyone else in the whole world. And at this moment, some thirty-three years later, I realize that I still do. 

Love,

Pumpkin

Comments

[Julie B.]

Thanks for reminding me of a wonderful memory. I still crave time in the mountains, but no tents for me. Been there, done that. It's Camp Holiday Inn for me now.

[MaryB]

You write with such clarity, I can completely hear and see everything you describe! And the camping memories--as much as I complained about going to the mountains so often, I find myself missing it. I loved the campfire and walking on trails. I HATED the sound of the wind in the trees back then. I probably ruined it for everyone, crying and such. I actually enjoy the sound now--childhood is an interesting place. Yes, we are lucky to have a mother to guide us through it so well.

[LauraB.]

Ahhhh! I have such good memories of camping too. I miss it and wish that my children had experienced what we did up in the mountains - except that one time when we were evacuated because a flood was coming. Scary!!!! Anyway, I enjoyed your blog today. We are lucky to have such a terrific mother.