Lessons of a Mother

Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

My mom lived vicariously though her daughters.  As she aged, her world became smaller and isolation more evident.  Years of smoking literally took her breath away, and her body endured a slow and methodical breakdown. Once she lost her ability to drive, her relationship to the world beyond her dark and cluttered family room became severed. My sister and I would arrange “outings”, alternating days to maximize the benefit of getting her out of the house. Change of venue was key. She depended on us, and her need for daughter connection was rarely satisfied. During her last few years, my mom would call frequently on a “non-scheduled” morning.  I tried to balance time for her with much needed time for me, and my “free” days were few.  These mornings allowed me the pleasure of lingering in my robe with the warmth of a coffee cup resting in the heart of my hands.  I loved this time of day when calmness ebbed after the hectic flow of school morning routine.  Coercing my 4 children out of bed, nagging them to brush their teeth and remember their packed lunches left me in need of some quiet respite.  As the last of my children left for their day, it became my time.And then the phone would ring.  Even in the disturbance of that first sound, I knew my day no longer belonged to me.  First, I denied that the phone was even beckoning; and second, I wanted nothing more than to ignore the persistent ring and let the answering machine solve my dilemma.  Most assuredly, on the other end of that call was my mom.  I knew why she was calling, and I knew my day was now hijacked.

“Hi Missy,” she would say, calling me by my childhood nickname. I responded with false enthusiasm, “Hi Mom, how are you this morning?”

I was already redirecting my day as I kneaded my forehead.  Soon, I would pick up my mom, and drive her around as I created the need to do mundane and unnecessary errands.  We would stop for lunch somewhere simple, and I would take her to Wendy’s drive through for an iced tea with extra ice and extra lemon.  And then I would return her home, safely back to her rose colored velveteen arm chair. I admit quite honestly that my heart was often ungenerous hearing the phone ring.  I wanted to remain in my robe with my coffee, but I also knew my mom needed a lifeline.  I heard desperation in her voice seeking connection beyond my dad’s blaring television and Special K breakfasts.  Any outing provided rescue, but an outing with her daughter was like restoring a light into her fading and lonely eyes.  I surrendered to her need for connection; a need I felt in every fiber of my being. It is hard to imagine someone delighting in a car ride along the usual streets of our neighborhoods, but my mom came alive with joy.  Each outing connected her with the beauty of the ordinary as she happily looked out the car window. “I don’t think the colors of the trees have ever been more beautiful,” she would say every October. “I do love to see the snowflakes fall,” she whispered almost to herself as we navigated winter wonderlands.  “Do you know no two snowflakes are alike?” she followed, struck by the awe and beauty just beyond her glass frame. “The grass is growing so quickly! And do you see those beautiful yellow daffodils?” she would remark with glee as we discovered the new growth of Spring. And my favorite, “Just look at those clouds,” she admired.  My mom’s gaze would linger towards the sky, and within the shape of the white cotton-like art forms, she would see a dog, a flower, a lamb, or whatever her aging eyes could create.  She would reach over from her passenger seat, grasp my arm and say with such delightful gratitude, “Oh thank you so much Missy!!  I really needed this today. Our drive has been just wonderful!!” Without fail, these reluctant outings with my mom transformed my selfishness of inconvenience; opened by a humility and understanding of the treasure of her.  I was reminded of the simple joys I so keenly experienced when in her presence. In my deepest self, I knew these unwelcome occasions to include my mom were sacred.  She was imprinting my heart.  Her awareness of the extraordinary in the ordinary, her imagination coming alive while travelling the usual roads of our lives, and her pure delight in being with me were reasons enough to answer the phone. “Mom, how about if I pick you up this morning.  I have some errands to do.  Maybe you can just ride with me and then we can stop for lunch.” “That would be nice,” she replied every time with excitement growing in her voice.  I knew this was my mission for the day.  Now, in the absence of these morning calls, I am reminded every time I look to the cloud filled sky how my mom blessed me.  I smile now in the morning should the phone ring.  Perhaps she is reminding me of the beauty this day will behold.