Happy Birthday, Mom

One of my first blogs was about my mother, but I am writing about her again because it would have been her birthday this week, and I can’t stop thinking about her.  I miss her so, so much.  I can’t speak for everyone, but it does seem like when people close to you die, all of a sudden only the good stuff remains.  Maybe you remember the bad stuff, but it doesn’t matter as much, because you would give anything for just one more minute, one more phone call, one more hug, one more memory, no matter what it is, just one more anything.  At least that’s how I feel, even though I’m first to admit that sometimes my mom made me CRAZY.

When I saw her in the hospital after the accident, she was stripped of all her make-up and jewelry and her wig was gone.  All these machines were attached to her and giant compression cuffs were keeping her circulation going.  I took her hand, noting that every piece of skin that I could see was bruised or shredded off her body, but her nails were perfect–a dusty pink color.  Mom loved her pink and she would have been so pissed that people were gawking at her without make-up and her hair done, because THAT is not how you leave the bedroom, let alone the house.  She was always after me for wearing ripped jeans and ratty sweatshirts and no make-up.  And she’d say shit like, “You’d be so pretty if you would just brush your hair and put on a little lipstick.”

When I was young, I used to argue with her over lipstick.  Like the night, Shayne was born, my parents were with me in Northglenn when my water broke around 10:30 pm.  I was in bed, and they were watching a double header of the Rockies on the couch bed in the living room.  (One they bought, so they’d have a place to sleep when they visited. Although, I was perfectly happy giving up my bed for them).  The first contraction hit about two minutes after my water broke and we all knew it was showtime.  Mom put on make-up.  She was fast about it, but the whole enchilada–foundation, powder, blush, eyeliner, mascara, shadow.  Then she tried to chase me around with some bright pink stuff to give my cheeks some color.  “Don’t you need a little lipstick?”  Dad intervened, like he frequently did, “Rosa, we need to vamanos.  Put it in your purse.  She can put it on after the baby gets here.”

My mom was an amazing cook, as I may have mentioned two million times, but food was sometimes about control for her.  You ate, even if you weren’t hungry, because she went to the effort.  I’m the first to say, that I’ll probably eat anything, but I wasn’t always like that.  I grew up in house that had an abundance of food.  There was a large garden, and berry bushes, and fruit trees, and a green house.  At any given season, I could have a snack of peas, or fresh strawberries, or a juicy apricot, fresh roasted pine nuts, or warm sugar cookies.   The pantry was stuffed with pretty much anything, anyone wanted and there was always ice cream and my favorite cereal and a million cartons of yogurt.  Because I’ve literally had yogurt everyday of my life, since I was like four.  I could be picky, because I was allowed to be and mom liked to brag that she catered to all of us.  And she did, sometimes she made three different meals.  Granted she was a bit of a drama queen martyr about it, but she WAS Catholic.

Going back to the night Shayne was born, Mom made Dad and I cheeseburgers.  Hamburger is something I used to be kind of picky about.  Okay, I still am.  I like grass fed meat, and if it’s hamburger, I want it bison and the leanest possible cut.  I also like meat rare.  Even hamburger, or in my case, bison, and I don’t care if rare ground meat can possibly bring me to death’s door.  I’ve been known to eat it raw and I pretty much always take a taste raw if I’m cooking it myself.  (I haven’t died yet, although with this lingering intestinal infection, I’m sort of wondering if I’ve had raw meat lately?  I don’t think so…..)But mom and I argued about the way my meat was cooked for decades.  So on that night, she thoroughly cooked my burger, so it was basically on the fringe of being burnt.  I ate it becase she told me that I was ungrateful and pulled out the waterworks.  No one told me that puking sometimes comes with labor, so I thought I was just sick from eating overcooked meat.  I threw up for a couple of hours after dinner.  Mom took pictures.  There’s one in Shayne’s baby album.  I wasn’t wearing lipstick, but she made me hold my hair back. So, so Mom–“Smile for the camera, even if you are throwing up.”

As I got older, I quit arguing with mom about all that stuff and just kind of accepted that’s who she was.  (It only took a little therapy;). )And I’d give anything to just have one more minute with her.  I’d put on lipstick and nylons and blow dry my hair and get a full set of nails;  I’d eat well done meat and wear uncomfortable shoes.  I would even iron my underwear and wear it, if it would bring her back to me for a single second.  Because when it comes right down to it, all the good, generous, kind, loving, self-sacrificing things are what I miss about mom.  Right now, while I’ve been so sick, she’d have been over here everyday, polishing up the silver, scrubbing the tub, boiling up every recipe she could think of to settle my stomach.  She’d probably have loved my blog and printed off every entry and laminated them to stick on the refrigerator.  She loved me, even if I didn’t always do the things the way she thought they should be done.  And yeah, sometimes she did make me crazy, but she made me a lot more that just that.  Because of her, I learned to be thoughtful, kind, generous, and tolerant.  So instead of being sad about her being gone, I’m going to try to remember her by doing something she would have done–maybe I’ll get the kids some shoes, or give a homeless dude twenty dollars, or light a candle at church for the recent school shooting or the storms in the East, or maybe all of those things.  Most of all, I’m going to think back on her with love and laughter and remember how beautiful she was on the inside as well as the out.  Happy Birthday, Mamacita.