Fear
Remember when I wrote about wanting to dress up like a prostitute for Halloween because of the Golden Girls? Dude. Apparently the Golden Girls are some kind of evil smutty empire, because tonight when I asked my mom if she remembered that story, she grimly replied, “Uh, yes. You wanted to wear a bustier and were extremely angry when I said no because I wouldn’t even discuss it.” Apparently I begged and cajoled and then ran off because she wouldn’t have an open dialog about whether or not fishnets and a feather boa were appropriate for an 11 year-old at Halloween so that I could dress up as a “lady of the night,” which we can all only assume (hope?) I thought meant was a more fun version of a night owl. She also kindly reminded me that around the same time I was swimming with her at the local YMCA and she accidentally splashed me and I announced, “MOM! Why do you have to be such a SLUT?”
Right. I called my mom a slut. Needless to say she wasn’t pleased and had a bit of an explosive reaction and I wailed and cried. She was unmoved until I sniveled, “But Dorothy calls Blanche that all the time!”
Ah, the Golden Girls. Bringing sexual innuendo to young girls everywhere. The irony is almost too much to take, isn’t it?
I talked to my mom three times today. I don’t know what it is lately, but I can’t get enough of my mom. I’ve called her enough that it’s probably immensely irritating, and I’ll admit, I’m a little embarrassed when my stepdad asks me if I called for a reason and I reply, “Uh. Not really. I mean, I had something that happened since I talked to her at lunchtime, but now I can’t remember what it is.” My mom is just so good to talk to – she’s so soothing and relaxed and she always makes you feel good, even if you didn’t think you could possibly feel any better.
If I am at all screwed up, I cannot blame it on my mother, because she was nothing short of awesome. In fact, much of my desire to become a parent stems from my memories of how wonderful she was with me. The paradigm of the child-obsessed stay-at-home mom did not originate with my mother. I mean, she stayed home with me while I was growing up, but not for one second, even in retrospect, was she overly focused on me. She paid attention to me and we spent a lot of time together, sure, but she always had her own thing going on – she was always having lunch with one friend or another, always working on some new project, new art, new quilt. She was (and still is) into everything, and is a brilliant artist who still shows and sells pieces at home in Pennsylvania. She taught me that you can be a parent and still be a whole person, and that by having a child, you don’t have to give up who you are. She is exactly as she’s always been – exactly who she was before her kids, and exactly who she is afterwards.
She keeps in touch with my high school friends, even the ones I haven’t talked to or thought of in years. They call her when they need help or advice, and whenever they come into town, they make a point to have dinner with her, even when they don’t have time to see other friends. I’ve been there when some of them call or stop by, and it’s always awkward, because while they’re happy to see me, I wasn’t remotely the reason they came over – she was. Half of my male friends had a crush on her growing up, and I’m not sure some of them aren’t still harboring those crushes, even though she is 65. It’s not just that she’s attractive – although she is, in fact, extremely pretty – it’s that she makes people feel good, and she’s comfortable with herself in a way that makes you feel comfortable and at ease just being around her. She is exactly who she says she is, and loves herself enough to be able to freely love other people in an entirely un-jealous way.
She wasn’t perfect, of course. There were things about her that irritated me, such as the fact that I wasn’t allowed to listen to Prince, as she believed he would cause me to do something overtly sexual, like spontaneous orgasm while listening to ‘Raspberry Beret’ or something (She called him ‘filthy’ on a near-daily basis). I also wasn’t allowed to see half the movies my friends could – I think I was the last person on earth to see Pretty Woman, because it involved prostitutes. A sad irony, when you think about it, because apparently it was the Golden Girls she should have been concerned about, for I learned more about sex from Dorothy and Blanche than I did from Vivian, and that included condoms! Yes, the Golden Girls used condoms, and doesn’t everyone remember when Rose had a brush with HIV and had a man die in her bed after having sex? And Blanche thought she was pregnant, then went through menopause? Sex ran amok on the Golden Girls! And you know, it’s highly likely that the ban on Pretty Woman was in part because of my youthful interest in prostitution and bustiers, courtesy of Rose Nylund.
H asked me what my biggest fear is, and though I am afraid of a lot of things, most of them are irrational and/or preventable, and I have medication and therapy for that. My biggest fear – other than losing my husband, which is too horrible to fathom – is actually the inevitable fact that I am going to lose my mother, if nature takes the course it’s supposed to. I know she’s not going to live forever, as much as I would like her to, and I know that one day, she’s not going to be here anymore, and I’m going to have to go on without her. I hate this fact. I go through phases sometimes when I try to wean myself off of the regular phone calls, off of needing to bounce something off of her, or just to hear a joke she picked up with her church friends. But that would really be stupid, I remind myself, because when she is gone one day, I would sorely regret not picking up the phone and hearing her laugh when I had the opportunity. And so, I call her every day, sometimes twice a day, and I will for as long as I can.
I can’t wait to see her on Saturday. Hug your moms this holiday season, either in person or phone, or if they’re already gone, by just thinking about them.
*Sarah McLachlan
30 comments December 19th, 2006