There are legendary stories in my family of things my mother has said in a crisis or things she has done that we just can't forget. We have treasured these stories over the years by re-telling them as often as possible, much to my mother's dismay. Really, it is a sign of love and adoration. Of course, now that I am a mother and this stuff is starting to happen to me, it's not quite as funny. Let's first take a look at my mother's track record.
At some point in the mid-eighties, my father decided to remove a dog pin in the backyard used by the former owners of the house. In the act of hammering some boards in an upward motion, my father hits himself in the eye. We believe he fell to the ground and at some point, lost consciousness. When he awakens, he hears my younger brother shooting hoops on the other side of the fence. He calls to my brother, "Get your mother!" Carl runs inside the house, yelling for Mom to come outside. Unfortunately for my dad, my mother was on the phone. In that classic mother way, mom snaps her fingers and whispers loudly to my brother in pure irritation for interrupting her call, "I AM ON THE PHONE!" So my sweet, clueless brother runs back outside and yells to Dad, "She's on the phone!" Writhing in pain on the ground, Dad tells him to go back and "get your mother!" This time Carl peeks around the corner to actually see Dad laying on the ground and is able to get my mother's attention. I AM ON THE PHONE is a classic in my family.
Fast forward a few years and Carl and Dad are in the carport playing hackey sack when Dad snaps his Achilles tendon. Looking back, I can't imagine how painful that must have been. Carl comes running into the house to get help as Dad, again, lays on the ground writhing in pain. I remember sitting on the sofa reading the paper when Carl cleared the back door. Unfortunately for Dad, Mom was on the phone again. You guessed it - the loud whisper and snapping of the fingers, I AM ON THE PHONE! Poor Dad. This time, Carl managed scream "CALL 911" and Mom hung up the phone.
When I was in the 9th grade, I rode the bus to school. On this one morning, my mother drove me to school and I insisted I did not feel well. I told her over and over again how much my glands hurt. She insisted I was fine and I was going to school. So Mom drops me off and I go into the classroom where my teacher promptly tells me I look funny and to go to the office. I walk into the office to see the nurse where it is determined I had the mumps. I loved making that call to my mother. Yep, I told you so.
My mother Christmas shops all year long, hitting sales on December 26 for the following year. She has a special way of finding the perfect gift for her children and then hiding it away until Christmas. She's amazing. The place she falls short is in the act of remembering where she has hidden said gift. Actually, Mom has found the perfect way to extend the holiday season into January and February. I love to hear she's found a gift weeks later and I have something new to unwrap! Classic Nora!
So now I am the mother. I am responsible for the lives of three precious angels and I can see my mother in my mothering. Yes, there are the sweet things like singing little songs to my kids, or gently waking them up in the morning with loving words and back rubs, or even the way I have to turn down the radio in the car in order for me to think clearly. Now that I have been doing this mom thing for a while, I am starting to recognize the stories my children will one day tell on me.
Let's take the incident with the milk. I poured little cups of milk for dinner and was irritated when Madison resisted drinking her milk. I explained how important calcium is and how much I want her to have strong bones. When that didn't work, I stepped it up a little by telling her she had to drink her milk before leaving the table. When that didn't work, I started threatening. When that didn't work, I started yelling. (Yeah, I'm not proud of that but it happens.) Eventually Maddie drank the milk. The night went on in the normal way - homework, baths, books, and bedtime. Kim and I watched TV after the kids went to bed and when 10 pm rolled around, I poured a small shot of milk to swallow my Melatonin. It is a MIRACLE I did not spray that milk all over the kitchen and actually made it to the sink to spit the RANCID milk out. I gagged and wretched and rinsed my mouth with water from the sink repeatedly as Kim laughed uncontrollably. I felt awful! I made my babies drink sour milk!!! I felt so guilty! The next morning I shared the milk story with Julie, best friend of the ages, and she asked, "Well didn't Maddie tell you it tasted bad?" Julie is the mother of the most precious little boys who are 5 and 3. She has no idea how manipulative and argumentative little girls can be. "Of course she said it tasted bad, but it's not like I believed her!"
And then there is the latest story of making Maddie eat Thanksgiving dinner with a fractured arm. This will be a classic, I can already tell. She fell off the monkey bars in the backyard 2 hours before Thanksgiving dinner hit the table. Yes, she cried. Yes, it was red. Yes, it hurt. In our defense, she was able to move her fingers and the swelling was minor. The rest of the night was DRAMA filled over the arm. We made it through dinner and dishes. We put Madison to bed with Tylenol assuring her the arm was going to be fine. She was up twice during the night with tears and sobs, saying how much it hurt. At 4:30 am, Kim takes her to the ER to learn she had, in fact, fractured her arm. Well I'll be darned. Again, another classic in the making.
I love being a mother largely impart because I love my own mother as much as I do. And I don't just love her, I enjoy her. We laugh and cry and cut up with each other on the phone and in person. I hope my girls love me as much when they are 37 as I love my mother now. I am sure there will be a million tales to tell on me and I welcome every one, I think. Hopefully I can learn a thing or two from Mom about how to be gracious under ridicule.
