Dear Mama (you are appreciated)
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thank you for being you and helping me become me. I love you.
This one’s for you...
Every piece of us as adults is crafted from small bits of anecdotes we’ve picked up along the way. A song lyric here, a hand gesture there, a quote overheard at a party, a lesson learned from a teacher. Tidbits of life shape what we like and dislike, how we approach our days, what we want more of, and who we eventually become. So many experiences and so many people have molded my own character, but I’m not sure anyone has left a bigger imprint on my design than my mother, the lovely Mary Rooney.
We’re warned (sometimes jokingly and sometimes warily) about becoming our parents. Growing up I had an especially difficult time thinking I could possibly “become” my Mom because I was sure the process would require some sort of drastic change to my temperament which, even then, I knew was pretty far-fetched.
My mother is thoughtful with her words and careful with her reactions. She doesn’t say everything that’s on her mind or swear in front of small children. I, on the other hand, could easily afford to buy the entire city of Paris if I had a dollar for every time someone has said to me, “Tell me how you really feel” or “Please stop swearing in front of my small child.”
As I’ve gotten older though, I’ve realized it’s not so much my temperament that has or will change over time (because honestly, it hasn’t and it won’t), it’s the way I do things, the way I feel for and about things, and the way I live my life that mirrors who she is.
I first noticed the shift in college when I attended my mother’s alma mater (go Ball State). It was Carole King’s Tapestry resonating with me my freshman year just like it did for her, and choosing a partner who later became my husband because he was someone I could talk to and someone who made me laugh. Later, when we bought our first house, my Mom commented that the reason I loved it was because it’s in a neighborhood similar to where I grew up. Then, at 29, I had my first and only child, the same age she was when she had me, her first born.
Soon, I was singing Motown to Van at bedtime and forcing him to dance with me in grocery stores to Jackie Wilson and Martha Reeves playing over the loudspeakers. I began to evolve to feel everything around me - great voices, endearing stories, conversations between well-written characters on TV, interactions with strangers - all the small, special things make me cry a little more now just like they do her. I call it “getting wispy,” when I should call it, “getting Mary-ed.”
I notice and appreciate the silly in everyone and everything now just like she does, too. I’ve always laughed, but I actually giggle now, genuinely giggle, at silly quips, follies, quotes, fantastical scenarios, and the like. We giggle at all the same things and belly laugh at almost everything except potty humor - something neither of us can tolerate (so please, take your fart jokes to some other mother/daughter duo because we’re not having any of that).
Only recently did I find myself falling in love with one of her greatest passions; a pastime I have always deeply admired but never imagined I’d one day inherit: her love of gardening. Just as all of her other qualities magically seemed to appear out of nowhere, so did landscaping - even though it took a global pandemic to make it happen. After discovering a forgotten patch of lilies I had planted two years earlier re-emerge from under a rock, I understood that new growth was the only way out of a modern day apocalypse. And, with my Mom’s help over the phone and in a couple select masked visits, I began planting my gardens and working toward making our property look as beautiful as hers.
I’ve thought about how to write this blog for a long time, but even more so since my hydrangea began to share its green spring leaves a few weeks ago. “I did it!” I thought. “I’ve finally become my mom!” And, as it turns out, I didn’t need to give up my foul mouth or any of my many opinions to make it happen.
