Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (26 page)

Mom saved small boxes to organize her drawers (“This is the perfect size to stack gloves in!”) and never had one empty hanger in any of her closets. (“Each outfit has a hanger. You shouldn’t need extra ones if you’ve organized your closet correctly!”) My drawers looked like a bomb went off in them. I still had my wrinkled college T-shirt shoved in the bottom under the hot pink spandex pants that went out in the late ’80s.

Mom was my greatest helper, but when I wanted to have deep, transparent discussions, she was afraid to talk about her feelings. Girls of her era were trained to smile, be charming and never, under any circumstances, let anyone see them cry. As a result, my overbearing father would get upset with her, and she would drive off to the mall crying, but always in secret . . . behind her sunglasses.

Mom never learned how to speak up for herself, but somehow she knew how to speak up for me. Maybe that is the real bond between mothers and daughters. She didn’t give herself permission to follow her own dreams, but she certainly gave it to her daughter.

“Did you read Carla’s latest story?” my sister-in-law asked her during a visit. My mother responded the way she always responded to any of my work: “Isn’t she marvelous? Isn’t she talented? She could write any kind of book she wanted to! She could accomplish anything!”

The last time I moved, my mother came over to do what she had done for me all her life: clean, organize and get the task done. For some reason, while we packed and swept that afternoon, Mom started to open up.

“Your sons have been given a gift,” she said. “You are the greatest mother they could have had.”

I scoffed. “Oh, Mom, I don’t even know how to cook. I still stare at the butcher counter and ask the guy what in the world you do with meat! I’ve never even made a roast before!”

“That doesn’t matter, dear. They can eat out. Housekeepers can be hired, dishwashers can do dishes, and turkey dinners can be bought at Boston Market. But what you have given those boys is something I never knew how to give.”

“What do you mean, Mom?”

“You show them your emotions. You teach them how to feel. You share the deep things in life with them. I wasn’t much good at that, I guess. You touch them emotionally, and that is the most important thing of all.”

Seven days later Mom died of a sudden, unexplained heart attack. Like the efficiency expert she was, even though perfectly healthy, her funeral had already been arranged, paid for, and a separate checking account set up with instructions typed out in her bottom drawer. There was one more thing though, that she couldn’t have planned for: her last laundry pile. I was afraid to touch it. I was in shock, denial, stumbling around her empty condo grief-stricken and overcome with sadness.
Who was going to
do it?
Not my brother. I had no sister, no daughter. The one who always said, “Here honey, I’ll do it,” was gone. It was
my
job now. I loaded the washer and poured in her Fresh Scent Tide and then fell to the ground, weeping in front of her washing machine. I sat there on that spotless laundry-room floor grieving the woman who had defined her life by tasks, but who actually had been the greatest
emotional
support of my life. Every time she did a load of my laundry she was saying, “I love you.” And every time she listened to my poem, story, or song and told me I could do it, she was teaching me to feel my feelings and express them without fear. The woman who couldn’t show her emotions had touched mine deeper than anyone.

Carla Riehl

First Love

As far back as I can remember, I was the loud, adventurous and mischievous daughter; she was the quiet, traditional and ladylike mother. I always blamed our problems on our age difference. She was thirty-eight when I was born, and at that time, in the late ’60s, that was old to have a baby. Though I was never embarrassed that I had the oldest parents in my group of friends, I felt that their advanced age accounted for their being so strict and conservative.

It was inevitable that the “loud” daughter and the “quiet” mother would clash. In my early teens, we argued a lot and it created an ever-growing wedge between us. One major problem was how strict she was when it came to boys and dating. We argued until we were blue in the face about when I would be allowed to date. Finally, the magic number was determined . . . sixteen.

In no time I was sixteen and dating. She didn’t talk to me about it directly, but I could tell my mother was very concerned. I couldn’t understand why. Didn’t she realize I was a responsible, intelligent girl who would never date a jerk? I assumed it was due to her “old-fashioned” ways. She was a strict “older mom” who just didn’t understand today’s world.

Then toward the end of my first year of dating, I met him. He was a great guy. My parents liked him instantly, though I could still see a look of concern on my mother’s face. Was she
ever
going to trust me? My boyfriend and I were in love and after going together steadily for a year, I started college. Anyone who has experienced first love and then a sudden separation knows the chances of staying together are slim to none. When we broke up, so did my heart. I was devastated. This eighteen-year-old know-it-all suddenly didn’t know what to do. I immediately ran to my “mommy” and cried on her shoulder like a baby.

Did she lecture me? Did she say, “I told you so”? Not once. Instead, she slept with me in my bed, held my hand and even kissed me on the forehead just like when I was a little girl. She never made me feel stupid or ashamed. She listened to my sad story and watched silently as the tears rolled down my face.

After a while, although I was feeling better, I was still very confused and didn’t quite understand what had just happened to me. I was very angry, and I expressed my concerns to my mother. I was surprised at the tone of my voice. It had a harder edge. I wasn’t so trusting or naïve; I felt older and more tired.

My mother gently explained the reasons she had been so concerned during my courtship, opening up to me like she never had before. She had always been so conservative with me about sharing her emotions that I sometimes wondered if she had ever been a teenager. Now, she told me about her first love and how she’d felt when it was over. Her heart had been broken, and the tears hadn’t stopped for weeks. When it was all said and done, she’d felt just as hopeless as I was feeling. She told me that in time her pain went away, becoming only a faint memory. She assured me that one day I would meet the man I would marry, and when I thought of my first heartbreak, I would smile. I would forget the pain and only remember the love.

I was surprised, shocked and relieved all at once. Surprised that my father wasn’t my mother’s first love. Shocked that she had actually shared this story with me. And relieved that my mother was not only a mom, but also a woman who had experienced the same kind of pain I had . . . and survived. It was then that my mother became my best friend.

After that, I shared all the challenges and problems in my life with her. College, dating, career and of course, more heartbreaks. But none ever seemed as serious as the first. I loved how close we were. Even my friends commented on our relationship. It made us both very happy and proud.

Then one day, many years later, I met him: my future husband. The first thing I did was call my mom and tell her all about him. During the phone conversation she asked me if I remembered my first heartbreak. Giggling, I answered yes, wondering why she’d asked.

I could hear the tenderness in her voice as she responded, “Are you smiling?”

Sophia Valles Bligh

It’s a Date!

“Should I meet him there Saturday night?” she asked.

“Of course not. You know the family rule,” I said. The cold pork chops hissed against the sizzling skillet. “Your date must always . . .”

“It’s
not
a date,” she interrupted.

“. . . come right to the door,” I chanted without missing a beat. We had rehearsed this very conversation before. A slight pause followed. “Where is he taking you?”

“Out for supper and maybe somewhere afterwards.” Panic peppered her voice. “A whole evening together— alone. What will we talk about?”

“Knowing you, you’ll talk about anything and everything. Since when have you been at a loss for words, anyway?” I joked, handing her a short stack of stoneware salad plates.

“But this is different. I hardly know Tom.”

Brushing aside crisp kitchen curtains, I peered into the deepening dusk. A gentle rain blurred the boundaries, skewing the scene like a photograph out of focus. “Well, there’s always the weather. Better yet, get him to talk about himself. Ask your boyfriend . . .”

“He’s
not
my boyfriend.”

“. . . about his interests. And, by the end of the date . . .”

“It’s
not
a date!”

“ . . . you’ll know each other better and probably have lots to say,” I encouraged. After all, I was experienced with this mother-daughter thing. I had raised four teenagers— all at one time—in the not-so-distant past. Could this be much different?

“Well—if you’re sure.” She paused. “It’s just that . . .”

“Yes?” I coaxed, a little impatient with her hesitancy, my mind racing ahead to the details of dinner.

But the voice that answered had slowed, softened and deepened.

“Do you realize how long it’s been?” Her words hung there, suspended, unsupported in the sudden silence.

Reaching across me to the stove, she flipped the pork chops and turned down the heat.

“. . . how long it’s been,” she cleared her throat, “since I’ve dated, I mean? Fifty-five years! With your dad gone so long now, I think . . . maybe . . . well . . . maybe it’s time. Why, Carol, I was seventeen the last time I went on a date.”

I turned—once again a daughter—and winked. “Oh, but Mom . . . it’s
not
a date!”

Carol McAdoo Rehme

My Daughter, the Musician

F
urnish an example, stop preaching, stop
shielding, don’t prevent self-reliance and initiative,
allow your children to develop along their
own lines.

Eleanor Roosevelt

When people I don’t know ask me if I have children I say, “Yes, a daughter and a son, both in their twenties.”

“Oh, really? What do they do?”

“One works in television production and the other in a rock band,” I say.

Invariably, the next question is: “What instrument does your son play?”

I smile. “My son is a television producer and a photographer. My
daughter
plays lead guitar. She’s also the vocalist and writes all the songs for the band,” I add.

Almost as invariably, the next question is: “Ah—an all-girl band?”

“No, she’s the only woman in Bell (the name of the band).”

“Oh.”

I wish all those people were with me right now, sitting in this audience, in this theater in Seattle, watching my daughter on stage; playing, singing, strutting and, in general, doing, as it were, her thing.

“Is she good?”

“She’s great! But it is possible I am the wrong person to ask.”

You see, Vanessa was not born with what you might call a God-given singing voice. I was not surprised. She came by it naturally. All my life I have been musically challenged. When I was in elementary school, we were made to try out for the school chorus. The song each of us had to sing was “Bicycle Built for Two.”

I can still remember the humiliation of having to get up in front of my class and warble, wobbily, “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do!” At the second extremely flat “Daisy,” there were audible snickers. However, the school rule was that if you wanted to be in the chorus, you got to be in the chorus, so I was asked, somewhat diplomatically, if I would mind just moving my lips instead of actually, well, singing.

Of course, I was hurt, but I let it go. After all, I could draw pictures and write stories better than the other kids. And later, so could my daughter, which may help to explain why I pushed her in those areas and gently (I thought) steered her away from music.

Didn’t work. The more I pushed in one direction, the more determined Vanessa became. Stubborn as a mule (I don’t know
where
she gets it), Vanessa devoted hours to her guitar. She listened, watched, studied, practiced, learned. Same with the singing. She would not give up. We fought. I tried to discourage her. I lost.

Now, with the release of her first album, reviewers are calling her voice “strong,” “gutsy,” “true” and “soulful.” They say the same thing about her songs. And so I sit in a theater next to all these strangers, bursting with pride. Do I say, “Wow! That’s my daughter up there”? Yes, but only to myself because I have been forbidden to say it to everybody else.

Heading backstage, I am ashamed of myself. I had actively tried to keep my daughter from pursuing her love, her music. I thought I knew best. I didn’t want to see her hurt. “Follow your dreams,” I would say, when what I really meant was, “Follow my dreams for you.”

In one of her songs, Vanessa writes, “Give me something to hold to/ give me something to reach/ and I can take on anything and shine like the sea/ But ask me to live without that/ I can’t make it work—can you?” No, I guess not.

And it doesn’t really matter whether Vanessa becomes tomorrow’s singing sensation or fades quietly away into obscurity. What does matter is that my daughter stood up to her mother and followed her dream—and her mother, old dog that she is, learned a new trick. It’s called humility.