My mom's slippers in the
photo should give you a glimpse into what my mom, Bunny, is like. She has never
fit into the cookie-cutter mold of moms, which has suited her fine and made
our life interesting. Those slippers of hers would've come in handy when
we moved to Minnesota and she'd walk outside barefoot in the snow.
Mom thought everything
was funny when I was growing up (no doubt fueled by the endless Erma Bombeck
clippings plastered on our fridge.) She'd chase me around the house with
my younger brother's wet diapers, telling me they'd soften my skin. She'd
purposely send Amy, our slobbery bulldog, into the living room if I was sitting
on the couch with a boyfriend, knowing full well Amy's gassy fumes would fuel
any boy to leave the room within a minute of Amy's entrance.
She filled our home
with music and laughter... and I had no idea every child wasn’t as lucky.
Of course I thought her rules were constricting, her concern for my
safety, overbearing (as their only daughter, my parents now agree they went overboard.)
After graduation, on the day I turned eighteen, I moved out. My
parents had given me a suitcase for my birthday—I thought they were happy with
my decision. Years later, mom said she was crushed by my decision.
Once I moved out, I
thought their influence on my life was over, my need for them,
history. Oh, how clueless I was! If
anything, I needed my mom even more as an adult. There have been times in
my life I’d call my mom, crying so hard I couldn't talk. In-between my
sobs, she'd ask how she could help me. And she did. Every single
time.
Mom could lead Do-gooders
Anonymous; she’s been a constant volunteer for years, always doing for others
and asking for very little in return from her family. Nothing
materialistic—just our time and respect. And she’s about the most
down-to-earth person you’ll meet. Trusting,
honest, and funny when she doesn’t mean to be.
Recently, I mentioned to
my mom that my older brother, who is a genius (a constant surprise to me!)
defied the statistics that babies who are nursed are smarter than bottle-fed
babies. “Oh, I nursed Chris,” mom said.
“I thought you said you
didn’t nurse us kids.”
“I just didn’t nurse
you, Jill.”
Well, that explains why I’m not a
genius.
My parents recently put
their home up for sale. While my dad was out of state, some strange man
knocked on their door, asking mom about their house. Even though they had
it listed with a realtor, a sign clearly posted in their yard, my mom welcomed
in this potential murderer-thief and showed him all around their home. I
didn’t waste my breath scolding her for being too-trusting. It’s mom—that’s
how she rolls.
Years ago, I worked in
the loan department for a bank that got taken over by the government. In
all the stressful chaos, our secretary/receptionist quit. So my extrovert
mom volunteered to fill in until they could hire someone, thinking she could
just visit with customers. During that time, they brought in a new bank
president. One day he asked my mom to do some typing for him.
My mom informed him,
“Oh, I don’t do typing!”
Clueless, he came to
me. “What’s up with our receptionist? That lady told me she doesn’t
do typing.”
Embarrassed, I told him
that “that lady” was my mom, and to just give me the typing.
It wasn’t the first time
my mom embarrassed me. It won’t be the last. I’m good with
that—that’s how Momma Buns rolls.
