Mom

A recent family gathering at Casa de Rodriguez
(Mom in white turtleneck behind Dad)

The story of my mother, Jennie Ryan, is surrounded by family.  She is the fifth out of seven children, born to Ignacio and Juana Gonzalez, my Grandpa and Grandma.  She grew up on a farm and some of her earliest memories involve feeding lambs from a baby bottle with her twin sisters, Emily and Molly.

What I don't know about my mother, what she never talks about, is what it was like learning English in the immersion of school, speaking a foreign language under the pressure of learning how to read and write.  I don't really know how they made it through the winters when my grandfather, a farm worker, was not working so much.  I don't know how it  was for her to grow up in a small town that was predominantly white during a time when racism was not called racism --it was just the way things were.

The reason I don't know much about these things is that my Mom doesn't like to "dwell on negative things"--even when it pertains to her own personal history.  What she loves to tell us is stories of being our small town's Tomato Queen, riding like a princess on an elephant through the main streets. Stories of meeting our father, Jack, who blew into Tracy like her knight on a white horse, swept her off her feet and married her in the Catholic Church that we were all baptized in.

Mom dwells on beauty.  She loves finding the good, is optimistic to a fault, and believes in counting her blessings.  Her life has not been easy, but you would never know this by talking to her.

Four Generations

...plus Scarlett

The power of my Mother is the strong belief in goodness.  She believes in the power of love, the power of forgiveness, the purpose in living a life for God, and the underlying truth that the only thing we can control about life is the way we react to it.

Today my mother turns 80.

I just typed that--and I can't believe it.  I think of my mother as perpetually 45, sweeping the floor, curling her hair, listening to classical music, making breakfast, watering her garden, going to Mass, lighting the candles on the table, reading the latest Michener.  All of these memories kind of blend together to create one large memory of her being there for me, woven into my life in ways that are completely beautiful.

Because, at her very core, my Mom is beautiful.

Auntie Molly, Auntie Emmy, Mom

Happy Birthday, Mom!  You make 80 look like 45 -- which I know can't be right, because I'm 53, right?  Or am I fifty four?  What am I, Mom?  Tell me!

Happy Birthday!

stand

In honor of Mother's Day, I post this story of of a sixth grade memory of my Mom.  I don't have memories of a smothering, doting mother - she was never over-protective or too involved.  Sometimes I mistook it for her not caring as much as some of the other Mom's.  Now I know how strong she is.  She wanted me to be the same, and I am.  Thank you, Mom.  I love you.  

Mom and Me - 1982

In the sixth grade there were two crosses in my life I had to bear:  Garrett Mitchell and my mother. 

Garrett Mitchell was the boldest, whitest, most popular kid in the class that all the boys were afraid of and all the girls secretly wanted to marry.  He hated me, and said so several times a day.  If there was a moment of dead silence hanging in the classroom, Garrett was sure to fill it with a jab about my looks (ugly), my brain (deficient) or my popularity (severely lacking).  This usually was received by my fellow classmates with laughter…because it usually was funny.  For everyone but me.

When I would tell my mom on the drive home, her pep talk was limited to “Just tell the teacher,” or “So what?  Just ignore him”.  This would sometimes be followed by a story of Eleanor Roosevelt not being insulted by someone because she had not given them permission to insult them.   I had heard about Eleanor’s response too many times.  I usually collapsed into a rumpled heap in the seat and sometimes moaned, “You don’t even care, why do I even tell you?” 

What I have learned as I have grown into a woman and an elementary school teacher is that Garrett knew how to bully me in innocuous ways: ones that the teachers wouldn’t bother with, even if they heard him.  Even if others laughed.  He wasn’t hitting, kicking, destroying my property, threatening my safety or racially slurring me.  He just was “teasing” me, they would say.  I was encouraged to ignore him, even if I were not equipped with the ignoring skill.

In the world of bullies, Garrett was a stealth one.  In the world of mothers, mine was a silent one.  I noticed her hanging back when all of the other mothers socialized in a chatty group when they were supposed to be keeping order on the playground or supervising hot lunch.  Mine was gentle, quiet, occasionally friendly with the others, but not like the others.  My best friend, Kim’s mother gave Mrs. Hughes an earful when Kim’s homework had been turned in and lost.  I thought all the other moms were the same: always sticking up for their daughters.   Neither Garrett nor my mother fit into my world of extremes- I was an emotionally-driven, noisy child that demanded attention and a response in every situation I found myself in.  Hence my status as perfect target for Garrett’s bullying.

One day my mother came to school to serve on yard duty, supervising a lawnful of students eating their sack lunches behind the school, either on benches or in circles cross-legged on the grass.  Because Kim was absent from school that day, I ate my lunch by myself on a bench against the classroom wall.  Next to me was my clarinet (all the pretty girls played the flute) and my music stand.  I was due at band practice in ten minutes and the lonely lunchtime would soon be at an end.  My mother wandered close to me, her whistle dangling from her thumb and forefinger, but she knew not to approach me to talk to me- a sixth grade rule: only losers talk to their supervising mothers at lunch. 

I was about finished with my lunch when Garrett sauntered up the lawn, a good distance away from me, but close enough to mumble something about me being by myself all alone at lunch time.  I glared at him, then cracked that he seemed to be alone as well.  For some reason, this angered Garrett – a reaction I was not used to seeing.  He approached me carefully, then grabbed my music stand and flung it against the fence.  “Now fetch, doggie,” he said, smiling. 

That’s when I heard the blow of the whistle.  My mom, completely out-of-character, yelled at the top of her lungs, “MITCHELL!!  Get back here!!”  Garrett (as well as most of the students on the lawn) faced my mother with a look of surprise and fear on his face. He suddenly realized that his actions were just witnessed by my mom- a not-so-silent version of her.  He froze, then walked toward her.  “Pick that up and give it back it back to her!!” She said, pointing authoritatively at the music stand, propped against the fence.  Garrett transformed his walk from sixth grade cool to obedient robot, something that made me both smile and feel sorry for him.  After all, to be corrected on the lawn by a parent was the most humiliating thing that could happen at school.

Garrett brought me my music stand, and just so that I could witness it, he glared as he got close to me, just to show me that things were still the same in our world.  I accepted his offering with a smile, and glanced over at my mom, who was still watching.

That's when I realized she always had been.  

Me and Mom 2014

ice cream

There are three rules in our family that can never be broken:

            1.  No screaming unless you are on fire or are being kidnapped;

            2.  Always think of the family before you make plans;

            3.  When Mommy is hungry, feed  her.  If she is really grumpy, give her ice cream.

Mommy is the kind of Mom that does everything.  She fixes cars, plants gardens, sings and plays the harp.  She makes all of our lunches (mine, Holly’s and Bristol’s), by giving us sprouted bread with organic cheese and veggies that she puts in Tupperware and kisses.  She says our lunches will fill our bodies with love, instead of chemicals, which the pre-packaged stuff will fill us up with.

When Mommy wakes up in the morning, Daddy has just gone to sleep.  He is online with China all night, solving their problems and they expect him to keep their schedule.  Mommy puts on the ambient noise machines so that our Great Danes, Venus and Mars don’t wake him up with their complete madness. 

After she gets us in the car, she drives us to school and sometimes helps us in class.  When she picks us up, she drives us to gymnastics and talks with the other Moms while we tumble and twirl.

Then, Mommy gets us all together after she chases Bristol around when she doesn’t want to get in the car.  On the drive home, sometimes Mommy tells us things like “Money doesn’t grow on trees,” or “You should listen,” or “I work very hard, you know.”

Since these are all things we know, I  assume that Mommy is saying them because she is tired and hungry.

I have learned how to send Daddy a text that says “Mommy is hungry,” or “SOS” when she can see that I am not listening to her. 

Hopefully Daddy can see his phone and will have dinner ready by the time we get home.  He usually drops what he’s doing and goes to make spaghetti or beans and rice before we can get home.  That way, when Mommy walks in the door, he can say “Welcome home, Honey!  Sit down, dinner is ready!”

Mommy is always pleased and surprised.  Daddy winks at me, or else he gives me a high-five, and we know our secret communication has been successful.

Sometimes, the dinner plan is not enough.

Mommy will come home and trip over our shoes that are near the cubbies instead of inside of them and then yell at us that we must keep the area clear.  Before Daddy has a chance to tell her that dinner is ready, she will ask him why he is the kitchen or she might even say “How is China today?”

It’s bad when Mommy asks Daddy how China is.

In these cases, Daddy has a secret weapon.  He will reach into the freezer and pull out a frosted glass bowl he has hidden behind all of the frozen breads.  He will take it out of its ziplock bag and reveal a beautiful vanilla heaven: three scoops of organic ice cream just for Mommy that she doesn’t have to share.  He’ll sit her down and place the bowl in front of her and put a spoon in her hand.  He tells her to start eating and he will feed the girls. 

She will not eat right away, in fact many times Mommy will ask Daddy where he bought the Ice Cream (she will not eat fake cream).  Mommy will eventually eat the frozen love offering, starting slowly and lifting the spoon to her mouth in slow movements.  Then, she’ll get a look on her face that is both silly and sleepy at the same time.

 

As soon as we are all settled at the table and Mommy is eating the creamy vanilla scoops, Daddy will sometimes bring her other things like fresh pineapple slices or butterscotch topping. 

By the time the girls are finishing our dinner, Mommy is making romantic looks at Daddy and feeling a lot better. 

“I do believe that this is my favorite way to end the day,” Mommy says dreamily. 

I love our family. 

I know we have rules for a reason and I am willing to live by those rules. 

I know that Daddy and Mommy try their best and they make mistakes.  I even know there are times when Mommy tries her best not to yell or say bad words.  But when she gets close to those times, I’m all for feeding her ice cream. 

After all, if Mommy ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

mom

Dad and Mom on their 50th Anniversary

When I was young she was always there.  She was soft, welcoming and huggable.  She doesn’t like to admit it, but she loved to nap.  She cooked from scratch and baked cool things and spoke to her own mother every day on the phone.  She was the fifth out of seven siblings, and had a strong sense of family.  She watered the lawn with a hose-sprayer after dinner, as if it gave her peace and comfort (What the hell was up with that?  So not me! )   She was beautiful, peaceful and rarely raised her voice to me.    

The list is on autoplay when I think of her.  Hearing the word “mom” rewinds me back to her then and transports me to who she is now.  Still, my list doesn’t really play into why I love her so much.  There is something uncharted in the human heart that makes people beautiful and valuable to us.  My mom is both, and I am so grateful that she is in my life. 

I didn’t always feel this way.  If you would have asked me at 16, I would have said my mom didn’t care much for me.  If you would have asked her who her “challenging child” was, she would have answered that I was.  Her glowing, graceful, feminine persona accepted the of hardships of life as well as its blessings.  I was born outspoken, waiting for someone to ask for my opinion about anything, and giving it readily.  Growing up, I was a classic underachiever, though, with a tendency toward being overly sensitive.   Almost every report card I brought home had notes saying that I “wasn’t applying myself” or that I daydreamed or that I was careless about handing in my homework.  I waited for her to lose faith in me, but somehow, she never did.  She would chew me out between clenched teeth when I crossed her boundaries and I would stand with my hands on my hips and roll my eyes like it didn’t faze me. 

Nevertheless, my mom, over the years, became a pillar of wisdom for me.  She had little by little chiselled out a place of refuge in my life, becoming a trusted ally, even though we were so different.  My first child was born when I was 23 and I instantly had a heart change for her, longing for her to be near. In every sense of the word, she was a natural mother, and when I compared myself to her, I came up wanting.  When I would tell her this, she would almost scold me, reminding me that I shouldn’t compare myself to anyone. 

Being polar opposites, now, has its advantages.   I can count on her to have a viewpoint I respect... one that I need to hear because it’s usually the reverse of mine; and in the balance I find wisdom for the moment. 

I know lots of people – good people – who are not drawn to their mothers like I am to mine.   I can’t explain why, but my mother is the safest person I know.  When I’m lonely for her, I cry.  Sometimes I call her when I do, and instead of asking me to return to my homeland and to my family, she reminds me of my calling here and prays for God to strengthen me. 

She loves me, and I know it.

March is her month, and she just celebrated another birthday without me there.  Some days you just want your mom, no matter how old you are.  Today is one of them.