And in the Role of Mother

As we get older we change roles from child to adult and maybe to parent, and from student to person-stuck-in-cubicle-working-long-hours.

However, most of us regard our parents as frozen in some kind of alternate universe where they never change and still feel the same way about everything. To us, they are in the last role of their lives except for maybe some day getting to add on the tag of grandparent.

Whatever our parents said when we were twelve still goes when we’re thirty-five. It doesn’t matter if Mom protests vigorously that she’s changed her mind about dining out at places with actual dishes. She said she preferred Wendy’s that one time and we’re going to make her stick to her word.

This is one area of our life that we can count on to not change and be rock solid certain. Boy, that’s a relief.

That is, until our children start to grow up and make sly, little jokes about us in front of their friends, while we’re present, as if we can’t really hear them. Suddenly, our own miscreant behavior comes back to bite us.

My son, Louie, who’s 22 makes sure that I never try to carry anything that weighs more than five pounds. That’s a dilemma for me because I am freakishly strong but hate toting things. Do I correct him by picking up some large object or take a seat and enjoy watching him work? So far, I’ve been taking a seat and I’m a little concerned that’s how old age gets you.

Louie is also convinced that I don’t know how to use any new technology and I’m too afraid to learn, can’t stay up past eleven o’clock and don’t recognize any current tunes. In response I like to randomly start singing parts of rap songs when he’s around, which totally weird’s him out, dude.

Yes, I know that last statement is going to only encourage him to think I’m dotty, but that’s okay. It’s starting to feel like part of my role as mother to amuse my only child with my un-coolness. Maybe for awhile we all need to believe that there are touchstones in our little world that don’t change and are therefore reliable.

Last weekend, I had a chance to enlarge my role as mother of Louie and go to his girlfriend, Kathy’s aunt and uncle’s house for Easter on the south side of Chicago. Kathy’s mother, MaryBeth, has nine siblings who are all married and have children and a few grandchildren, and there’s her grandmother, Mary. They were all there at various parts of the day.

Huge Irish Catholic family who all live in the same neighborhood, except for Uncle Mike who moved over one town to Aurora, which no one can figure out why. They were funny, loud and enveloped me as if I was one of their own even going so far as to tell me, “If you get to your feet, you lose your seat.”

There was also a good story about a Brite-Lite that never got picked up out of the shag carpet by Kathy or her brother Bill, or her sister Julie over twenty years ago. So, MaryBeth lived up to her word and drove them to the poor box where Bill was sent to drop it in while the girls watched forlornly from the car. However, last year there was some closure when MaryBeth gave each of them a replacement for Christmas.

All day long I was introduced as, Martha, Louie’s mom and everyone responded with that, ‘oh’ of recognition as they shook my hand. It was my first occasion as mother of the grown child at the serious girlfriend’s family’s house. It made me happy to see that Louie had managed to fall in with such a large, rollicking family. And, bottom line, as long as I know who I am and love what I see, it’s okay to let go of how everyone else describes me. More adventures to follow.

First I Tried It My Way, Over and Over Again

First of all, I managed to make it pretty far on force of will. I'm 50, have a grown son and three published books, plus a syndicated column read by millions. Only problem is the bank account is brushing along the bottom and I can't keep thinking that some magic is going to happen if I just keep trying out different angles.

Very patient agents have told me on more than one occasion to pick a genre and stick with it. But, mixed in with my love of writing was a need to prove something and the need always won.

That's why I have a thriller, a book that's southern fiction and a memoir plus a column on current affairs every week and another on life in general. You can see a pattern in my lack of a clear plan. Everything has received critical praise and the readers who've found the books, loved them. But I never stuck around long enough in a category to build the audience any further than that. It was like I was building great foundations to houses without ever putting up walls and then wondering what happened.

Enough already. Faith in theory is exhausting and childish. Big girl faith requires doing what's right and then nothing more. My old way wasn't leaving any room for God. My new journey is going to open that up a bit.

Besides all that folderol, I recently survived two separate bouts of cancer. The first one was absolutely, positively supposed to kill me, but I'm still here and I know it's by the grace of God. The doctors were so convinced the news after the surgery would be bad they told me to sit down because they were sure the good news would shock me.

So, enough of my headstrong ways. I can change and when I say I want to be of service, actually mean it and practice it. Of course, a good part of the time I'll still be figuring out what that means but the willingness is there and my feet will hopefully follow.