Flashback Friday

Here's an oldie but goody I wrote for the Post-Bulletin almost exactly two years ago. Happy Friday!

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My husband has this Mother's Day thing down. He's concocted what he calls a "win-win-win." Here's how it goes: He and the boys head north to spend the fishing opener at Grandma's house… and I stay in Rochester.

By myself.

Alone.

It's genius, really. Jay gets to fish. The boys get to see grandma. I get to be alone. (Had I mentioned this part?)

As they squeeze into the van on Friday afternoon, amid mountains of tackle boxes and fishing rods, snacks and stuffed animals, books and DVDs, I give my boys roughly 1,323 kisses. I remind them to be good. I remind them to eat healthily. I remind them that I love them more than all the stars in the sky and more than all the fish in the sea and all the way up to the sky and down to the earth.

My six year old says, "I love you, my cute, precious Mommy." My eight-year-old says, "Love you, too, Mom… can we start the movie?"

They pull out of the driveway and I wave madly. They drive down the block and I wave madly. They turn the corner — and even though I'm pretty sure they're not looking anymore — I wave madly. And then, right before they're out of view, I panic.

I think, "My entire life is in that van." And I fight the urge to sprint down the street and stop them from going. Or at least go with them, so if they end up in a fiery crash on the highway, at least we'll all crash together.

Which is a horrible, morbid thought. But it's true.

And just when I start thinking I'm the worst mother in the whole world for letting my kids leave on Mother's Day weekend, they turn the corner and I realize I'm alone.

Like really alone. Like I could do ANYTHING.

And suddenly, I'm literally jumping up and down and squealing. Right there in the driveway. I take three flying leaps into the house while squeaking, "Alone! Alone! Alone!"

But once in my living room, I just turn in circles. "I should read!" I think, grabbing my book. "No! Wash the lunch dishes first! No! Nap! Write! Clean! Call your sister!"

There are too many options. I want to do everything. I want to do nothing. I call Jay and the boys instead.

"Where are you?"

"At the SA on 37th…."

"Tell the boys I love them."

"I will."

"Be careful."

"I am."

"Do they miss me?"

"I'm sure they do."

"Call me from the road…."

Ultimately, I have a calm and productive weekend. I go to Bunco. I meet a friend in Minneapolis. I do no fewer than 10 loads of laundry. I sleep in — on sheets fresh off the backyard clothesline.

When I get the call a couple days later that my boys are in Pine Island — almost home! — I feel a mix of anticipation and panic. Sixteen minutes left!

My gut instinct says a sweet-tooth free-for-all is the only acceptable way to end the weekend. I ravenously pop a leftover May Day Tootsie Roll into my mouth while simultaneously opening the Neapolitan ice cream, which I eat straight from the carton. I wipe the chocolate from my lips. I compose myself. I take a final look at my spotless kitchen. (Goodbye, sweet, clean kitchen. I'll see you again next year…)

And then I'm there — just where they left me — waving and blowing kisses in the driveway as they pull back in.

Scenes from my Mother

Last week, I sent two essays to my MFA advisor, Laurie Alberts. The first essay in packet I liked a great deal. It's about the crash-and-burn of one relationship (the guy came home from the bar with another girl on our anniversary, people) and the bouncing back with my "rebound guy." Whom I married.

The second essay, about a conversation I had with an old teacher, felt... incomplete. I couldn't pin down what was missing--but I knew I hadn't nailed it. There's something to be said about writer's intuition because when I got my packet back this weekend, Laurie agreed with me. Only she recognized the problem. (That's why she's the teacher.)

"This story is much more about your mother than about this nameless guy in the restaurant," she wrote. "You've given us your mother mostly in summarized reports. You need to write an essay that is much more focused on that relationship ... Your mother deserves real scenes, not reports."

Okay, sure. I would've rather received a letter from Laurie reading, "What do you mean you're not sure about this essay? It's brilliant!" But she was right. My mother deserves real scenes. So in honor of the ineffable Penny Haugen, here are two:

We're at Godfather's Pizza, and, frankly, I think we're embarrassing my dad. Amy's roughly five seconds from hyperventilating. Angie can't see through her tears. I'm sitting on the floor next to my chair, shrieking. My mom's throwing her hands in a "I'm laughing too hard to talk" gesture.
Who knows what was so funny? That's not part of the memory. Had I fallen off my chair? Did one of us snort during a giggle? Did we overhear something of great hilarity from a neighboring table? I mean, anything could've spurred this outpouring.
When we finally calm, our stomachs aching, our throats hoarse, my mom wipes her eyes, shakes her head and says, "Oh, that was funny."
Which, naturally, gets us started again.


My grandma's doing the dishes at the kitchen sink, the clink-clink-clink of Corelle against cutlery the soundtrack of this memory. My mom's sitting on the blue flowered couch under the living room window. I'm sinking into her, my face in my hands, my breath a jagged mess of tears. "But why doesn't he want me?" I cry. "How can he do this?"
"I don't know," my mom tells me, near tears herself as she smooths my hair with the hand that isn't wrapped around my shoulders. "You are a beautiful person and I love you."
"But why doesn't he?" I say, my words a squeak.
"I don't know," she answers. "Maybe because he's not very smart."


Here's the thing. My mother has never once told me that she'd always be there for me. That she's only a phone call away. That "family is forever."

But she's never had to. Because I've always known. She has lived every minute of her parenting life by these truths, ensuring that her three daughters know, unequivocally, that she has our backs no matter what.

My God. My greatest hope in this world is that my sons never question these same truths about me. Happy Mother's Day, Mama-cita. I love you.