Happy Mother’s Day, Mom
My relationship with my mom is very different from the relationship I had with my dad.
Dad and I were quite simpatico. We had the same sense of humor, the same passion for good writing, and the same kind of temper when pushed beyond our comfort level (which didn’t take much). I considered him one of my best friends, and we talked on a weekly basis. Even though he was a poet and had written a play I didn’t find out about until after his death, he never really pursued a career in writing. So I think he got a kick out of me self-publishing and lived vicariously through my author exploits. It took a while to get over my anger at how little he took care of himself up to his death.
My mom, on the other hand, was more of an enigma to me. While Dad was a storyteller, Mom was more in the background, listening, smiling, and adding her own take to things when asked. When I was a teenager, I often clashed with Mom, as my two older sisters were already out of the house, and I felt like we were exact opposites. Every time I got upset, Mom remained cool because she had already gone through that with two other teenage girls. And I often took that to mean she didn’t care, because if she did, I felt she should get just as upset as Dad or I would.
This carried over into almost every aspect of our lives. I told the story in Dad’s eulogy about when I was 11 and playing with my cousins when I ran into a metal pole and my glasses cut into my forehead. Thankfully, there was a baseball game going on nearby and someone was able to get in touch with my parents. I told the team medic how my dad was going to freak, and when my parents were in view coming toward us, he said, “You were right. Your mom is walking a bit calmer than your dad.”
It took years after college to realize Mom and I had more in common than just both being left-handed. I’ve had friends say I’m pretty agreeable when it comes to spending time together, and I realize I get that ease from my mother. Growing up, any time I had a weird or kooky child request (like asking to mix gross condiments together for a taste test at my birthday party or wanting to be a road for Halloween) Mom never asked why. “Sure!” was always her reply, and she would help out any way she could. Even as I got older and sometimes worried what Dad would think about my life choices, I never had that concern with Mom.
And while Dad was my biggest fan and biggest critic when it came to my writing, Mom loved (and still loves) it all. She’s a big part of my virtual street team to this day, recently getting my new romcom in the Adams Free Library in my hometown and the library at my alma mater, Hoosac Valley High School. I’ll be signing the copy she bought for herself when I go back home in July and won’t be surprised if she’s “sold” numerous copies for me by then. When it comes to her girls, she’s always very proud in her own way.
So, for this past Mother’s Day, I want to acknowledge my mom’s unwavering support. The more I talk to other writers, the more I realize that’s not such a common thing. My parents were a united front when it came to backing their daughters’ efforts, and I took that for granted when I was younger. But the more I talk with people, the more I realize how lucky I was to have grown up in such an encouraging environment. I used to joke with people that I struggled to be a writer because there was no major trauma in my life that drove me to write. Now all I can say, in all sincerity, is “Thank you, Mom.”