* * *
I had a rather shocking epiphany this morning, pondering about the sparse hours ticking away before Mother’s Day, the day society demands we call our moms up (no matter how long it’s been since we’ve last talked), tell them ‘I love you’ (no matter if we really mean it or not), and maybe buy them some flowers or a pretty card with a mother’s hand holding a baby’s hand on the front (but only if we’re feeling like extra nice children). And here’s what I realized: we love to glamorize our mothers. Like that air-brushed model that looks just a tad too skinny to be human, we stick our moms up on plastic billboards and surround them with words such as, ‘perfect,’ ‘angel,’ or ‘superhero.’ We elevate them to this alien pedestal on Mother’s Day, praising the fact that they raised us without resorting to suicide, and then often times go on to forget about them the rest of the year.
So, here’s my thought: my mother’s not perfect. She’s not an angel, not a fashion model, not some inhuman Super Mom. And no, she doesn’t save the world (trust me, I’ve looked into it). She’s my mom.
Most cards like to highlight a
mother’s instruction, the numerous things she teaches her children with her
words. And yet, I feel like I’ve learned so much from what my mom hasn’t said.
I’ll never forget the time I
caustically said to her face that I wished she had never married Dad. I spit
those words out like venom, my mind warped into believing that it would
actually bring about my victory. But my mom? At the least, a spanking with the
wooden spoon and a firm yelling were warranted. But she just looked at me. She
looked at me with sadness in her eyes, seeing right through my brave mask that
tried to conceal the fact that I didn’t actually mean it. She sat me in my room
and left me to stare out the window, all without saying a single word. We
eventually talked about it later on that night, and I’m sure I sobbed and
sobbed, assuring her that I didn’t mean it (one of my incredibly dramatic
attempts to avoid a spanking or no Disney movies for a week), but I will never
forget the way she looked at me. At a time when she could’ve so easily raised
her voice and let her emotions drive her discipline, she was silent. She didn’t
need words, her eyes had the depth of a star field, seeping underneath the outer
skin with its white light and saturating my little-kid-angry-heart.
Moms aren’t supposed to sweat
either. No, they’re mostly advertised as ones to stay inside, teach kids how to
read, and maybe get a little warm making dinner that night. But my mom sweat. I
remember one weekend where Dad was out of town, and both our lawn and my
grandparents’ lawn needed mowing. Seeing that my mom suffers from pretty
aggressive back pain, my Dad’s usually the one to do the outside work. But that
didn’t stop her. She cranked that mower up and got to work, finishing all four
yards that day. I’m sure her back killed for weeks after that, but she did what
she needed to do, even when she sweat like crazy and her hair got messy and her
makeup rubbed off.
My mom uses the word ‘honey’ like
normal people use the word ‘the’ or ‘and.’ It doesn’t matter if you’re a
three-year-old girl or a forty-year-old grown man, if my mom talks to you for
more than five minutes, she’s bound to call you ‘honey’ at some point in the
conversation. We love to poke fun at her, she gets teased so many times, and
yet she just keeps going. It’s super annoying and really embarrassing at times,
but for every ‘honey’ she throws out, it’s just one more reminder that she
views you as an actual person. I get tired of people who like to treat other
people like robots, like their own personal machines to get them food or give
them money or help them buy a house. We are not scrap iron parts that can be
rearranged to fit other people’s standards. We are human beings that live and
breathe, molded in the image of God for his glory. My mom gets that. She sees
that as she talks with someone, hears their point of view, looks them in the
eyes and compares them to the sweet nectar that bees throw up.
In
light of that, she understands that humans are imperfect beings who slip up.
Despite phrases like ‘the golden child,’ reaffirming this delusional idea of a
perfect child, my mom is always the first to say that she gets I’m not perfect,
and that that’s normal. She pushes me
to do my very best, but if that ends up falling short of perfection, that’s
okay. I don’t ever have to feel like I’m striving to reach some impossible
standard, dancing around the edges of who I really am, because my mom sees that
I’m not just her son. I’m human.
I love the rare occasions when my mom says words
like ‘shit’ or ‘damn,’ because it’s always followed by this never-ending
remorse that is absolutely restless until one of her kids calms her down and
assure her that they’ve forgiven her and they still love her. I lose track of
how many times she apologizes, as if her Mom-Badge has just been tainted and
she’ll never be able to shine it up again. So, after I’m done laughing, I’ll
nod my head and inform her that she’s still my mom and I’m still her son. But
it humanizes her, and I think that’s scary. Because it means that she’s sorta messy, which
isn’t a word you normally throw about with the woman who spends years and years
cleaning up other people’s messes.
Speaking of messes, I really, really
hate it when my parents cry. I’m sort of a hypocrite in that respect, seeing
that I just talked about humanizing my mother in the paragraph above. Because
that’s what crying does. For most of my childhood, I did view my mom as this
inhuman parental being whose sole purpose was to serve me. Someone who would
hold me when I cried and kiss me when I fell down, but never actually cry or
fall down herself. So, when my mom and I were talking a few years ago, and she
started tearing up for one reason or the other, I didn’t quite know how to
react. All I knew was that I didn’t like it and I needed to get out of the room
as soon as possible. But I think something beautiful happens when your parents feel
comfortable enough to cry in front of you. As much as I tried (and probably
still try) to push away any instance that may or may not result in tears,
there’s no denying the fact that it brings parents and children a little closer
together, connecting them on an emotional level that’s deeper and not as much
of a one-way street. Yes, my mom is my mother and she raised me and she’s very
wise and stronger than me in a lot of ways. But she’s also human, and she cries
sometimes, and it’s awkward and painful and gorgeous all at the same time.
On the other side of the spectrum,
Mom’s not afraid to laugh. Anyone who’s been around her for a few minutes will
know that she has one of the most distinct laughs on the face of the planet,
one that will find you when you’re lost or searching, one that will lead you
from one end of Wal-Mart to the other. I’ve seen many families that love each
other deeply, they care for one another and are always very kind, but they just
don’t laugh enough. And sometimes, that’s really all you need. My mom laughs
until she farts, cries or sometimes (on rare, horribly hilarious occasions)
pees her pants. Because for all of the messes that we make and all of the
messes that we are, there’s something incredibly healing about laughter. Just the
sound of it alone is like an internal hug to the heart. Every time she laughs,
it’s just one more of the unrealized ways she says, ‘I love you.’
I know Mom worries that she raised
us wrong, that she didn’t teach us enough or tell us enough bumper sticker
mottos to follow when we’re struggling. But I’ve learned more from her than
she’ll ever know, partially from the many ways she doesn’t even realize, the
ways that are too human to stick on the front of a greeting card.
From
all of those indelible moments when she held her tongue and didn’t say a word,
I saw a love so deep and a grace so extensive, I had to come to grips with the
fact that she would always care for me, and that her eyes would always reflect
forgiveness.
I
saw her sweat and strain her back over and over again, teaching me to give my
all, even through the pain and ugliness that would sometimes unfold.
For
the simple, often annoying names she calls people, I saw them as exactly that.
People.
And
for reaffirming the beauty in those people, despite their imperfections,
helping me to find gold not in crazy-golden-child standards, but in the
intricate, often bloody complexities of the heart.
From
the cuss words that accidentally slip out, to the tears that are shed, my mother has shown
me that people don’t come in stark black and white, but that we’re poignant
watercolors that bleed various hues of yellow, green and blue.
And
from her rambunctious laugh, the North Star that always reminds me I’m home,
alive with the presence of joy and life and my mom’s constant shout: I love
you.
I
love you too, Mom. And I mean it.
“There’s no way to
be a perfect parent, but a million ways to be a really good one.” –Cheaper by the Dozen 2
