NoJoMo Day 12 in The Long and Winding Road

Day Twelve: What are some traits and looks that you inherited from your mom?

This one is easier to answer than the same question about my dad. I look a lot like my mom. In fact, a lot of my huge family (I have over 50 first cousins) have similar features. One of my sisters looks an awful lot like one of my mom’s sisters. It strikes me every time I see my aunt’s picture.
My mom was a loving, thoughtful, giving, generous woman who loved to dance and have a good time, and she loved being with her kids. She was a talented seamstress, a fabulous cook, and a great baker. She was bright and quick. She was a super fast typist even though she never “learned” to type the right way. She could also be moody, and her moods could turn on a dime.

When I was in my 20’s I became aware that I could be just like my mom, not in the best ways. I could be moody, temperamental, and demanding. In a way, I was grateful to my mom for exhibiting that behavior so that I could learn from it, and I think I was able to curb my own inclination to behave that way.

I think I inherited her loving, generous nature, and her love of dancing and having a good time. And of course, I love being with my family. At the risk of sounding full of myself, I think I am bright, and quick. I can be really funny and witty, which are traits many in my family share. And I am an amazing typist, if I do say so myself (and I’ve said it here before). I actually “lettered” in typing in high school after just one semester of that class. (Remember letter sweaters?).

My mom’s attitude towards housekeeping was interesting. The house was always very cluttered. Every time my parents would be having friends over for dinner or to play bridge or whatever, the big family project was to clean off the dining room table, where my mom always had stacks and stacks of things. Her typewriter, stacks of sewing patterns, stacks of coupons, stacks of cut-out cookies she baked that were waiting to have icing put on them, stacks of mail, stacks of newspapers. Plus all kinds of other odds and ends that found their way to the table. The kitchen counters were always cluttered too. And yet – the house was basically clean. The bathrooms were always well scrubbed, the floors were polished and waxed, the sheets were always clean, the oven was cleaned regularly, the freezer was defrosted often. But the clutter – it drove me CRAZY. Now, I don’t know if it’s nature or nurture – but I cannot tolerate clutter in my home. I can’t even sit back and relax and watch TV if there is ANYTHING out of place, in any room. I actually have relaxed a little bit as I’ve gotten older. Especially as we get closer to the weekend – I’m learning to let things go, a little bit, because I know I’ll be cleaning over the weekend. But for the most part, the house has to be in order if I’m going to be at peace. Even if I’m sick. Maybe even especially if I’m sick. I can’t lay on the couch under a blanket with my Kleenex and Thera-Flu by my side, if the house isn’t clean!

I did not inherit my mother’s sewing, cooking, or baking skills. I almost failed Home Economics (remember that?) the semester that we had to make a skirt, because I had so much trouble putting a zipper in. Looking back on it now, I don’t know why I didn’t sit down with my mother and learn how to put a zipper in a garment.

My mom died at age 56 from alcoholism when I was 35. The last few years of her life were challenging and difficult. She had been in and out of rehab, but she just could not stay sober. My dad – who didn’t believe in divorce – finally was driven to divorce her. That devastated her, and she went on to make some horrible romantic choices and other lifestyle choices. Through it all, she loved me and my daughter more than anything in the world. Her drinking had a huge affect on our relationship during those last years. I cut her out of my life a couple of times. The last time I saw her was Thanksgiving Day, 1987. I left without saying goodbye to her – I was so angry, because I thought she was drinking again. She had almost dropped the turkey while taking it out of the oven, and she fell asleep at the dinner table –her face literally in her plate. What I didn’t know is that she wasn’t drinking, she was dying. She died on Dec. 13th of that year without us having ever spoken after that Thanksgiving Day. I don’t think I have to even write about how devastating the whole experience was for me.

I’m grateful for the good times, and I’ve recovered from the bad times. I loved my mom and if there’s an afterlife, I hope she is dancing away.

Last updated November 12, 2015