One Mother's Super Power

I have long held onto a super power that has persistently proven problematic, yet I have continued to possess it way past its practicality. 

You see, I know exactly what someone’s going to say before they say it. 

I am so sure of myself, in fact, that I often just relinquish any real life conversation and act upon what I know for sure is coming next. 

 

For a long time, I thought it was specific to child-rearing, but I’ve found that my super power transcends all walks of life.

 

When I was in the throes of three children, four years apart from top to bottom, I expended a lot of energy wasting a lot of words.

 

“Child Number Two,” I’d say. “Will you run down to the basement and grab Number Three’s cleats for me?”

 

Of course, I knew before the words were out of my mouth that the response, verbatim, or a very, very similar narrative would be,  "Number Two can do it himself.”

 

“You’re not doing it for him, you’re doing it for me.”

“No thanks. I’ll be in the car.”

 

Then there were these conversations:

 

“What’s for dinner?” any one of them at any given time would say as he or she breezed through the kitchen, dropping a backpack, jacket, and one sporting paraphernalia or another, on the floor.

 

“Meatloaf.”

 

“Gross. I’m not eating.”

 

“it tastes exactly like hamburger.”

 

“I hate hamburger.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since forever.”

 

And as they grew and were given chores:

 

“Don’t forget to cut the grass.”

 

“It’s Child Number Two’s turn.”

 

“He did it last week.”

 

“I did it the three weeks before that. Gotta go, Evil Coach Tony’s here. Basketball practice.” 

 

Or: 

 

“So how was the party?”

 

Blank stare.

 

Or: 

 

“What is Friend Number Eight doing these days?”

 

Shrug.

 

“Does he have a job?”

 

Shoulder hunch.

 

“You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me? “

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

“Weren’t you at his house last night.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And it never came up? You never asked, ‘Friend Eight, what are you doing these days?'”

 

“Nope.”

 

“I’ll just text his mother.”

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“Why won’t you tell me?”

 

“I. Don’t. Know. What. He’s. Doing."

 

So, through the years, I learned to: 

A) Retrieve any cleats, books, jackets, backpacks, dogs, cats, remote controls, empty toilet paper rolls, egg-stained dishes, 2/3 full water bottles, or other misplaced items, myself. 

B) Become a short-order cook.

C) Buy a push mower (despite possessing super powers I won’t use power tools).

D) Limit offspring questions to those answerable by a simple yes or no. 

 

Having muddled somewhat successfully through motherhood, I have transferred my talents to the workplace. I’ve been a freelance writer for over 20 years, during which time our family has experienced some rather lean years. So, once the youth moved into the young adult phase and my child-oriented volunteering duties waned, I dabbled in getting a “real” job. It seemed way easier than trying to boost the freelance business that wallowed in the words, pro bono. 

 

“Why don’t you apply at (fill in the blank),” my ever-supporting spouse would suggest. 

 

“They’ll never hire someone who’s over (fill in the age),” I’d retort.

 

“You don’t know that,” he’d rightfully respond. 

 

“They’re going to say I’m over (or under) qualified. That they’re looking for a brunette/ Episcopalian/introvert/activist/ (fill in the blank).”

 

I would reluctantly fill out an application on Indeed and when they didn’t so much as acknowledge receipt of my resume, I’d smugly tip my hat to my super power. 

 

My sister, Emily, has always been one of my strongest advocates.

 

“My friend is looking for a freelance writer,” she’d say. “You should call her.”

 

“She knows I exist. She reads my blogs. She’d contact me if she wanted me.”

 

“Not necessarily. She may not know you’re looking for work.”

 

I shrugged over the phone line. 

 

“She’s never going to pay me enough,” I continued.

 

“How do you know?”

 

Oh, I know, my super power thinks.

 

“Just tell her you’re looking for X dollars an hour. You paid that much for SAT tutors and baseball lessons.”

 

“If I say X dollars, then then there will be dead silence and then I’ll say, OK, how about half that much and then she'll say OK, and then I'll be bitter because I’m working for half my worth.”

And of course, there are the doctor visit convos: 

"They're going to tell me I have to give up chocolate/bourbon/Words with Friends. I'd rather die than get that diagnosis." 

 

A couple weeks ago I was riding my bike in Saddle River Park, a spot reserved for mid-week, mid-day rides to avoid the crowds. But, on this particular day, I had underestimated the competency of virtual learning and it was mobbed with kids.  

 

Three miles in I was faced with my worst nightmare, second only to the Labradoodles on 20-foot leashes criss-crossing the path while their owners talked loudly and obliviously from their air buds. Six boys somewhere between 13 and 16 years old (I can no longer tell the difference) rode three astride, zipping betwixt and between pedestrians, doing wheelies, and riding long stretches standing up with no hands. And of course, no helmets. But, I couldn’t have cared less about that. 

 

I turned on my super power conversation starter but knew exactly how it would end. So, instead of following the politically correct bicycle protocol, announcing “On your left!” I circled the duck pond an extra time so they would get far enough ahead of me that I wouldn’t have to deal with them at all.

 

But, alas, at Milepost 5, I caught up with them again.

 

“On your left,” I resignedly said in my head.

 

“On your left,” the boy with the man bun (well, boy bun) would mock, veering over into my lane.

 

“Don’t be that person,” I’d call over my shoulder as I slipped by, slilently praying that I wouldn’t hit a tree root and land on the ground in front of then. Which would, sadly, start an entirely differnet conversation. 

 

“Don’t YOU be that person, you fat pig!” the one with the saggy shorts would yell.

 

“Think about what you are saying,” I’d calmly cry. “I could be your mother.”

 

“Grandmother,” boy with the music blaring from his handlebars would spit back.

 

“Grandmother? More like great-grandmother,” the wheelie popper would pop.

 

At which point, I’d blink back my tears and fury and pedal as fast as my granny legs would let me before the conversation escalated. 

 

Yup, I knew for sure exactly how this was going to go. But, I had to do it. I had to get past these evil adolescents. 

 

I took a deep breath.

 

“On your left,” I called meekly.

 

I clenched my jaw. 

 

“Thanks!” Boy Bun responded as he and his posse veered to the right.

 

I flashed a peace sign as I passed.

 

“Peace out!” Saggy Shorts screamed..

 

“Have a great day!” Wheelie Popper bubbled.

 

I thought about that encounter for the rest of my ride and all the way home. The home where I was greeted by a front lawn of long and leggy blades of grass rising through the weeds. 

 

I put my bike in the garage and eyed the push mower in the corner, playing the ensuing and unsatisfactory conversation in my head. 

 

But, instead of cutting the grass myself, I decided to test my super power one more time. After all, the misfire at the park was probably just an anomaly. 

 

“Child Number Three,” I called as I burst into the kitchen. “I have a job for you.”

 

I was greeted by raised eyebrows.

 

“Can you cut the grass?”

 

I realized I was gritting my teeth and flexing my fists. My mouth hung open, ready for sparring.

 

“Sure,” he said.

I crinkled my brow and let his answer compute. 

As I did, I slowly came to the conclusion that while listening to the voices inside your head can be quite amusing, more times than not, they're misleading. And, that while you may believe with all your heart that you possess a super power; the truth is, they're only real in fairy tales. 

What our Mothers Do to Us

I will never turn into my mother. I know, I know; we all say that. But, in my case, I can promise you it won’t happen. 

I will never look like her. Unlike me, she never carried so much as an extra ten pounds on her svelte self, excepting, of course, when she was carrying nine-plus pound babies. Unlike me, she never had to tame thick, frizzy, locks. Nor did she ever limp around from bad knees, aching hips, or bulging bunions.  

I will never be like her. I never came close to mastering the fine art of formal dining, let alone executing consistent family dinners. I didn’t inherit her flair for incorporating contrasting palates and patterns into picture-perfect living spaces. Nor did I pick up her penchant for perfect present wrapping. No one was happier than I was when the gift bag came into vogue. 

And I will never, much to my chagrin, act like her. I simply don’t have the calm gene, the keep-your-thoughts-to-yourself gene, the live-and-let-live gene, or the feign-love for the family dog gene. Instead, I proudly and loudly proclaim my perceived rights and slights, and transgressions of others.

But, of course, I am an anomaly. 

At a certain age, as we grow into grown-ups, so many of my friends shriek with horror as they recognize that they have, indeed, turned into their mother. 

For some, it starts with something as innocuous as tube of toothpaste. Arthritic hands wail for relief as day after day, the tube is squeezed and rolled and flattened, trying desperately to save three, maybe four cents worth of Crest. It could be an old-fashioned adage like “I’m sweating like a whore in church,” that rolls right off the tongue. Or recognizing that Mother’s meatloaf has unwittingly, but undeniably, become the ultimate comfort food of choice. 

And for some, it’s not a specific thought, word, or deed, but a rite of passage of sorts, an unsuspecting seeping of one soul into another. 

I’ve had myriad relationships with my friends’ mothers. Some wished I were their own, while others wished with all their hearts that I had never befriended their own. And that goes both ways. Patty’s mother is one who endured the test of time, as we all revolved and evolved through the years.

I can still picture Mrs. Ellis perched on the couch in the living room on Beech Lane, giving me an all-in-one eye roll, smirk and back-flip wave of her hand.

“Please. Just call me Jean.”

And, then she pushed the glass ashtray to our end of the coffee table in a, “You think I’m stupid?”  gesture. 

“Go, have fun,” she’d say as we broached the subject of taking the little tan Corvair for a spontaneous spin down to the shore. We lied to the other mothers (sorry, Mom), assuring them we were spending the weekend at a friend’s parent’s house when actually we had no idea where, or with whom, we’d be staying.

Patty, of course, had the advantage of being the youngest of three; her two older brothers, Steve and Jimmy, were even more, shall we say adventurous, than Patty and company, and had come out the other side, if not unscathed, at least alive. So, perhaps that’s the reason Jean was a little more permissive with us.

But, it may just have been her deep faith in God, mankind, and the revocability of mistakes. 

Jean was lucky in love. She was also unlucky in loss, seeing both of her husbands through not-so-great deaths. But, Jean pulled up her boot straps and prevailed. 

At some respectable point after Patty’s father succumbed to ALS, Jean found herself at Fingers, a favorite local restaurant, bantering on a barstool with Bill. Bill was a fun-loving, no holds-barred type of guy, ready and willing to accompany Jean through Act Two of their lives. We all were invited to their wedding. Patty, Steve, and Jim’s friends ate, drank and were merry, toasting the new couple as if they were peers, not parents. 

When Patty moved to Florida and met her future ex-husband, they had the northern version of her wedding celebration at Fingers. When Patty and I were both in town for holidays, we’d meet Jean at Fingers for a cocktail. And when Bill died about 10 years ago, the repast was held at Fingers. 

Fingers isn’t Fingers anymore, but our memory of it is filled with Jean.  

It wasn’t until Steve spoke at the covid-compliant, socially-distanced, live-streamed, funeral service that I realized that it had happened. Steve spoke of Jean’s passion for the written word, her love for all things sports, especially the Phillies, her wanderlust, her social life. He reminded us (as if we needed it) how much she loved her family, her friends, her kids’ friends. But most of all, she loved life. She loved to have fun. And loved when her loved ones did the same. 

Yes, I smiled, and nodded my head into the abyss of the Facebook funeral. 

But, it wasn’t until I read her obituary that I laughed out loud. 

“She would also want you to tip your favorite server or bartender in her memory.” 

Yup. For sure, Jean had indeed osmosed into all three of her kids. They are all well-read. They are all sports fanatics. They all love to have fun. 

Patty and I shared Phillies’ season tickets in our formative years, dreaming of meeting Manny Trillo and Shake-and-Bake McBride. I believe our seats were bequeathed to us by Steve or Jimmy, or both, when they took off for Florida. Patty and I talk about our book clubs, sending reading recommendations back and forth. “Just try it!” she’ll exclaim when I say that Erik Larson way eclipses my Jennifer Weiner pay grade. 

And, anyone who knows me knows that the great highlight of my year is my cruise with Patty. After all this time, we’re pretty compatible, meaning that she knows it will be smooth sailing if I get my choice of beds, shore excursions, and sundeck locations. But, tipping is one thing we do squabble about. 

I am way cheaper than she is, and now I know exactly where she gets her generosity. 

Patty and I were on the last cruise out before Covid struck. As a matter of fact, it hit hard while we were on the high seas, every day waking to news of another institution shutting down on the mainland. 

Getting on the ship was a bit of an emotional challenge. I flew down to Patty’s house in Florida the night before, as I always do. It was a bit out of character for me to be nervous about something that was still so unknown, but my ever-loving and never-over-reacting spouse thought it was a bad idea for us to go. A very bad idea. Especially because, in early March, people were getting quarantined on cruise ships at an alarming rate. 

Patty wasn’t the least bit concerned, but acknowledged my stress as text-after-text came in from my spouse citing horror stories, which in hindsight, were hardly horrific considering what was to come. 

“Let’s call your mother,” I said as I shoved a handful of m&ms in my mouth while sitting at Patty’s kitchen table. “See what she says.” 

Jean was on the cusp of turning 92 years-old and had finally and reluctantly moved to Florida to be near all three of her kids who had permanently migrated to the Sunshine State. She lived in one of those cruise ship-on-land graduated living communities to which I aspire, refusing to give up her independence and move in with one of her children, all of whom had plenty of room. 

Jean didn’t hesitate. 

“Go!” she said. “Life is short. Go and have fun.”

And so we went. 

The celebration of Jean’s life brought me back to our last day on board with Patty and I bickering back and forth over how much to leave our favorite servers. 

“We prepaid our gratuities!” I argued. 

“Think of all that extra bourbon they poured in your drink,” Patty retorted. “Besides, they count on their tips for their families. And who knows when they’ll even sail again.”

“Oh, please,” I said, tossing another 50 dollars into the till. “Watch, this Covid thing will be contained in two weeks.”

Gulp. 

Because we had been on a cruise ship during the outbreak of the virus, Patty wasn't allowed to visit her mother for two weeks, so Jean missed out on our annual vacation debriefing. Instead, when I got home, I mailed her a copy of Susan Orlean's The Library Book and shortly after received a gushing thank you note saying, "Thank God for books or I would be a nut case with this lockdown." 

She signed it, "Stay close to your buddy! Love, Jean."

While Patty and her brothers would be reluctant to recognize themselves in their mother, the truth is, she managed to get under their skin in the best ways possible. She was fun. She was kind. She was generous. 

And in her death, she did what all good mothers do. She took that last long breath and smiled, sending the best parts of herself off into safekeeping, into the souls and spirits of those she loved the most.