Got your pity ready, Readers? You might want to.
Sometimes I really wish I was a 1950s housewife. I only spend like .01% of my
wishing time on this particular wish, by the way...most of the time I
wish for hover boards or for Mark Wahlberg to show up with a box of chocolates. I
wish this one not because I would be a good 50s housewife. I would be the worst
50s housewife on record. I would be that one that all the other ones, in their
pearls and gloves, would gossip about; shaking their adorable hats, perched just so on their
perfectly done hair, and saying, "Bless her heart, but the child is
useless." No idea why in my head all 50s housewives are southern, but
there it is. No, the reason I wish I was a 50s housewife is that Valium would
be a lot easier to get. No, I tease. Sorta. But the real reason is that no one
would be asking me when I am going back to work.
Strangers ask me this. Friends ask me this. Family asks me this. But if I am
being honest, the loudest voice asking me this is the one that resides in my
head. The one that also shames me when I miss church, scolds when I lose my
temper, and heaves a shuddering sigh when I balance the checkbook. It is
usually my mother's voice (the checkbook sigh is always my dad), but it is
nothing that she has ever said in real life. No, my brain just figured out that
I give her voice a ton of weight, so when molding my self-doubt, it just
appropriated her voice accordingly. Much as the advertising world has convinced
us that Morgan Freeman thinks Visa is saving the world and if you use it, you
will too. (Oh, and admire these Penguins, while you are at it.) Sadly, my mother has
never received any royalty checks for the use of her voice, only strangely
passive-aggressive phone calls from her daughter on the Sundays we all slept
in. Needless to say, the voice is pretty powerful, and lately, it wants to know
my 5 year plan.
Here is the real problem, Readers: My family tree, while full of awkward
leaves and jam-packed with branches dripping faux pas like oh so many acorns,
is also full of amazingly ambitious woman. The men aren't bad, but it is the
women who stare at me from their perches, willing me to be more. My paternal
Grandma was a musician, a teacher, and, if my father is to be believed, a
feisty fashion plate who knew her way around some stunning flapper-ware. She
built airplanes during World War II, and then got a Master's degree in Special
Education, while raising 4 children (one a set of identical twins). She had a
wit that would not quit, and, I imagine, would never resort to puns or cheap
rhymes. The dress she wore to my parents' wedding hangs in my closet,
and it definitely outshines my wedding dress, which lives next to it. My
maternal Grandma is a dietitian, still drives cross-country by herself (at 88),
skied well into her 60s, raised 7 children (one a set of identical twins), and
wore a cape to my wedding. A cape, Readers. And she totally pulled it off!
Early in her marriage, she and my grandfather set off across the country on
move 2 or 3, with child 1 and 2, and her cheerful stories of sterilizing
bottles at rest stops curls my hair. This summer, at my brother's Special
Olympic swim meet, I watched her climb to the top of the bleachers for a better
view, her sunglasses on her head, a hot dog in one hand, and a camera in the
other. Basically, both women were college-educated firebrands who I doubt ever
sat down for more than 10 minutes a day.
Speaking of not sitting down, wanna meet my aunts, Readers? Of course you
do! My godmother was roofing a house just last summer, and she is taking a
plumbing class next. This is in addition to raising 6 children and running a
farm. My Dad's sister just got back from Russia, before that it was Santa Fe,
before that it was China, before that I totally lose track. And that is just 2 of them. My aunts are
business women, bankers, teachers, librarians, amazing, and mothers of even
more twins. (I know, Readers, I know. With every pregnancy, I worry that my
time has come.) My aunts are poets, politicians, and pragmatists; usually all
at once. If the grass ever attempted to grow under their feet, I am sure they
would simply put it in its place with a firm look. And the next generation is
more amazing still. (Myself excepted, of course.) My cousins are doctors (of
the people and animal varieties), scientists, artists, paralegals, social workers, mothers, and
teachers. Let me just tell you about the teachers, Readers. (Sorry for that
one, spirit of Paternal Grandma!) Heading into daily battle with the pre-teen
mind is about the scariest thing that a person can do, and they do it
effortlessly, breezily even, with a grace that belies their status as awkward
relatives. Seriously, sometimes I think that the Baba Yaga snatched me from
some deeply awkward family, tripped getting back into her giant mortar, and
accidentally dropped me into my current family. It would explain somethings. (Look her up, Readers. That's no broom she's riding.)
For example, it would explain how my mother's only daughter could be me
instead of, say, President of the United States. Long-time Readers are good friends
with my mother and know all about her
abundance and
antics. I don't really know where to
start here, the woman is kinda the definition of fabulous. Like this: she met
my father at a Halloween party; he wasn't wearing a costume (duh), but she was
dressed as one of the
10 Bridesmaids from Matthew 25:1-13.
She delights in telling us that she was one of the "foolish" ones
with no oil. She wears this scarf sometimes, a riotous explosion
of colors, but if you look close enough,
you will see that it is like a million very
tiny pictures
of a friend of hers. The friend who made it is the one whom she watches
Sunset Boulevard with, their hands on their mouths eventually
failing to stifle their giggles as Gloria
Swanson inches toward
her close-up. These are the people she hangs out with and occasionally goes to the track with. She says she just likes the horses.
And she does like horses. No, strike
that; she loves horses with all the passion of a 12-year-old
girl.
My mother thinks
the Exorcist is hilarious but is deathly afraid
of tornadoes. She can cook, she reads
about 5 books at a time, and she is
never late. She has a Nativity set the size of a small
town (like a real small town),
complete with some dude selling
wine, St.
Francis, and about 16 people I am fairly sure were not even in Nazareth that winter. She also allows the children to add any action
figures who might feel
like adoring Jesus in-between
games. Her reverent
irreverence instilled a deep
faith in me that exists to this day, and I doubt I would have any faith
at all if it wasn't for her cheerful and chaotic
Christianity. She greeted my brother's diagnoses of autism with a shrug because why would that change a thing about her love and his ability to have a wonderful life. She greets pretty much every new situation
as a potential adventure and every new person as a new friend.
My mother went back to school when I was in grade school. She would study at 3 in the morning because there was simply no other time to do it. I can still see her; reading at the dining room table, the windows pitch black and the lamp glow making her look angelic and very very young. Then, she'd chase me back to bed, and she'd lose her angelicness completely. She got her Master's degree when I was 15 years old, and I do not think that I have ever seen
her sit still for more than 10 minutes. Ever.
This is what I am dealing with, Readers. This is the legacy of the Awkward women; they may be awkward but they are ambitious and artful in amazing ways. Imagine my distress when bringing my gift to this feast of gifts. The table is laid with every achievement and talent imaginable, spilling forth in jewel-tones of blinding beauty. And here comes me, holding a little box. Crooked, saggy, probably leaking something. I lay it on a corner of the table where it lurks and slowly turns gray in the presence of so much color. A funny little box. A little box of funny.
Awkward Mom has informed me that if you are related to her, you are not allowed to respond to this and refute anything she has said. You are all fabulous, and if you attempt to convince our Readers that you are not, she will make every Thanksgiving from now until the end of time quite uncomfortable. Love ya!
Super Baby, I would tell you no pressure, but I think we both know that is a lie.
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