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I drove my mother home tonight. “‘Little Mommy.” In her little hat and her little boots. A little jacket too. No one tells you how little your mother will get, if she makes it into her 80s. Mine is extra little.
My Little Mommy, talking in circles. Telling stories. Giving opinions. Repeating herself. I do the same thing.
My Little Mommy, always sweet, kind, sensitive, emotional. My mother. My mother who broke athletic records in high school. My mother who was once so lively, a dancer, couldn’t keep her in her seat. An actor, couldn’t keep her off the stage. A personality, my mother. A singer, with a voice so beautiful she could’ve cut a record deal “back in the day,” as they say. She probably could now, if she wanted to.
She is currently in denial about some things. About her limitations, which now include a semi-Swiss-cheese memory, her eyesight, her physical health. My Little Mommy is getting older.
No one tells you that when your mother gets older, you get older too. They leave that part out.
My mother still spends big money on big things, like travel and furniture and Costco, but refuses to spend small money on the smaller things she can still do herself, like yard work and cleaning. My mother is independent. She is definitely still busy doing “all the things,” but I worry about her more.
My mother, who lost her husband, my dad, when she was the same age I am now. My mother, who had to pivot on the earlier side of older. My mother, who consciously decided to grow older alone. My mother, who tells me she doesn’t feel lonely, except for sometimes, when she’s been alone too long. My mother who forgets to text me back.
One thing about Little Mommy is she always opens her home. To relatives, near and far, to grandchildren, to friends. For parties and beach days and dinner and celebrations. Little Mommy is the very definition of the family “hostess with the mostess,” because being social keeps her connected and she also feels obligated because the lake belongs to everyone. My mother likes to entertain because she likes to hold babies and put out a spread. She likes to cook and get rid of her stockpiles of food. But, please don’t ask her to throw away a spice. Certainly not the ones she bought last week, and definitely not the ones she bought back in the 90s, still lined up and dusty on her pantry shelf.
My mother, who spoiled her six grandchildren trips to Europe for their high school graduations. My mother, who naturally springs up from her chair whenever good music comes on. We call her style of dancing “The March,” all foot stomping, knee bending, and side to side head shaking. No one dances like her. She feels it in her bones. It’s joyful, it’s groovy, and it’s fun.
My mother, the traveler, the smart partner. My mother who paid the bills, and picked me up from school unless she forgot, and kept track of all the family stuff. My mother who made holidays so special. My mother, who sold popcorn machines to bars in the 1970s and portrayed Woodsy the Owl for the Women’s Club, putting on shows in schools all over town. My mother who played softball for The Marbledale Pub and sang her heart out in church. My mother, my Little Mommy, who volunteered at Loaves & Fishes, and babysat my children, and put money inside envelopes for all of us, my mother who helped me plan and pay for my beautiful wedding. My mother who still makes sure I have Maple Sugar Candies for my birthday in October each year. My mother who still tells me I was the most beautiful baby. My mother who still believes people are innately good.
I drove my mother home tonight and we talked in the car because we had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t a deep conversation, but it wasn’t shallow either. It was just me and my mom, driving.
No one tells you to savor the mundane moments because they are not precious. Until you realize they are.
My mother, talking in circles, with memory issues, and achy bones, and a perennial broken heart, and her little steps and bad habits and good habits too, wanting to connect. My mother shouldn’t drive at night anymore. My mother, “the Character,” the favorite Auntie, the loving sister, my mother with whom I share cells and the same smile, and a certain belly that’s round like home, my mother who likes a good laugh and wants to feel relevant, my beautiful little mother, who is just another imperfect woman, doing imperfect things, who is growing old, and older still. Just like me.
When I describe my mom as “talking in circles,” I’m not doing it with disrespect, nor am I doing it to disparage or be condescending (I hope it’s not received that way). I’m saying it out loud to recognize the truth (and the grace) of her steadfast resilience. In order to be honest about her spirit, her years, and her accomplishments, I must also say that getting older, and older still, does not come without cost.
My mother, who is so small in her little hat and her little gloves and her little boots. My mother, who bites her fingers when she’s thinking, and doesn’t like conflict, and always hopes for the best, even when the best is not on display. All these years, my mother has remained resolute in her optimism. And being optimistic is no easy feat in today’s world, not to mention the many past decades she’s already lived through. I know she worries. I know she holds things deep inside, but I also know she often looks at and for the brighter side of life. She’s cheerful and kind. The world needs more people like my mom, especially now.
My mother still yearns for the same thing she yearned for the day I was born, too.
My mother, like so many other mothers throughout history and time, like so many other hopeful women, aging and enduring, just wants me, her “most beautiful baby,” to be happy.
When someone purely wishes only the best for you in life, please don’t take it for granted. Sometimes the most precious gift you have is the little big-hearted person who gave you life, the one who repeats herself now, the one you have to drive home.
And no one tells you that.
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