Happy Bloody Mother's Day!
I don't have a good memory. Ask anyone who knows me, and they will concur that I have forgotten nearly everything about my past. Seriously, I have forgotten monumental milestones that have made me who I am. I would recall exactly what these milestones are, but I have no memory of them. Are you not listening? Perhaps those of you who have known me for a long time can refresh just what exactly I have forgotten. It's bad, it really is.
It has always been a mystery to me, why I can't remember my life. But I think I may have the answer, and it will always be a visible reminder: a Y-shaped scar on the top of my head. And thus begins my tribute to my mom for Mom's Day...
I wanted it to be a peace sign, but an upside-down Y is not a peace sign. It could be the Mercedes insignia, but I'm not that rich. No, I've had to settle with just a plain Y-shaped scar.
And if its form is weak, the reason it's there is even weaker. You see, my dad made things, like shelves and hutches and tacky wooden signs that read "Momma's Kitchen" and other such kitschy, Southern phrases. Don't get me wrong, he was good. But he went too far when he built an 8-pound, behemoth, boxy birdhouse and balanced it atop a 10-foot post in the backyard.
You see, this post was the perfect apparatus to which to tie my brother. I was 8 to 10 years old, I can't remember exactly, and he was 4 to 6 and willing to be tied to a wooden post without putting up a fight. Was I a little abusive? I can't remember. But I can tie a good knot. In fact, after we stood there and realized that it was a stupid idea, we couldn't untie the knot manually. Naturally, I went for the obvious tool that could easily cut a rope: a small shovel.
Forgetting about the birdhouse of death perched atop this post, I hacked away at the rope with the shovel whilst my brother freaked out from the possibility that he could be there forever. A couple minutes in, the whacking shook the post until the teetering birdhouse fell and struck my tender 8 to 10 year old head.
While it is possible that this accident has caused my memory lapses, I still have a fond memory of how my mom reacted. I could have been unconscious for a while, I don't remember, but when I got up and began walking toward the house I couldn't decide just what exactly happened. Had my sister, with her incredible throwing arm, thrown a basketball at me from 20 yards away? I looked around and noticed that my brother wasn't there and the birdhouse was lying on the ground. "Hmmm?" I wondered. Beguiling. My sister greeted me as I walked in the door with screaming and immediate crying, which of course was the warning signal to my mom, who began screaming frantically, “WHAT’S WRONG?! WHAT’S WRONG?!” For all I knew, half my head was missing. And that’s exactly how I decided to interpret the women’s bumbling panic. And that’s when it really started to hurt.
Of course, everything ended up okay. Although we didn’t have a car to get to the hospital, our neighbors were kind enough to take time out of their busy schedule to help a homicidal mother, her psychotic daughter, and her terrified son with a giant hole in his head, gushing blood and brains. I mean, that’s how it could’ve been. I don’t remember. But I got stitches and a lot of attention from my parents and friends and the girls at school, while my brother just got a little rope burn and some trauma from seeing my head fall off.
My point is, though, that it was my mom who put aside anything that had to do with herself to devote every present moment to her child in danger. You could call it a biological response that all mothers share, but I call it a devoted and unselfish love that happened to burst during my time of need. While her reaction may have actually scared me more than calm me, it was the way she protected me like only my mom could that I will always remember. She held my hand while I whimpered in her lap. She carefully wrapped a towel around my head and managed to comfort me with her gentle hands. I may not ever understand what it means to be a mother, but I certainly will respect my mom for the passion she has for each of her three children. Throughout my teenage years, through college, and up to now, she has shown that if she could have only one thing, it would be that which makes her our mother. And for that, I love her.
Personally, I don't know what she sees in us.
So, even though I have forgotten a lot of what has happened in my life, there are those things I can’t forget. That birdhouse may have taken half my head and a lifetime of memories, but I still have my mom.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
(Honorable Mentions go to my Mema and my Mom-in-law, for being both great mothers to their own children and great mother figures for me.)
(Also Mother Theresa, whom was a wonderful mom, I’m sure.)
It has always been a mystery to me, why I can't remember my life. But I think I may have the answer, and it will always be a visible reminder: a Y-shaped scar on the top of my head. And thus begins my tribute to my mom for Mom's Day...
I wanted it to be a peace sign, but an upside-down Y is not a peace sign. It could be the Mercedes insignia, but I'm not that rich. No, I've had to settle with just a plain Y-shaped scar.
And if its form is weak, the reason it's there is even weaker. You see, my dad made things, like shelves and hutches and tacky wooden signs that read "Momma's Kitchen" and other such kitschy, Southern phrases. Don't get me wrong, he was good. But he went too far when he built an 8-pound, behemoth, boxy birdhouse and balanced it atop a 10-foot post in the backyard.You see, this post was the perfect apparatus to which to tie my brother. I was 8 to 10 years old, I can't remember exactly, and he was 4 to 6 and willing to be tied to a wooden post without putting up a fight. Was I a little abusive? I can't remember. But I can tie a good knot. In fact, after we stood there and realized that it was a stupid idea, we couldn't untie the knot manually. Naturally, I went for the obvious tool that could easily cut a rope: a small shovel.
Forgetting about the birdhouse of death perched atop this post, I hacked away at the rope with the shovel whilst my brother freaked out from the possibility that he could be there forever. A couple minutes in, the whacking shook the post until the teetering birdhouse fell and struck my tender 8 to 10 year old head.
While it is possible that this accident has caused my memory lapses, I still have a fond memory of how my mom reacted. I could have been unconscious for a while, I don't remember, but when I got up and began walking toward the house I couldn't decide just what exactly happened. Had my sister, with her incredible throwing arm, thrown a basketball at me from 20 yards away? I looked around and noticed that my brother wasn't there and the birdhouse was lying on the ground. "Hmmm?" I wondered. Beguiling. My sister greeted me as I walked in the door with screaming and immediate crying, which of course was the warning signal to my mom, who began screaming frantically, “WHAT’S WRONG?! WHAT’S WRONG?!” For all I knew, half my head was missing. And that’s exactly how I decided to interpret the women’s bumbling panic. And that’s when it really started to hurt.
Of course, everything ended up okay. Although we didn’t have a car to get to the hospital, our neighbors were kind enough to take time out of their busy schedule to help a homicidal mother, her psychotic daughter, and her terrified son with a giant hole in his head, gushing blood and brains. I mean, that’s how it could’ve been. I don’t remember. But I got stitches and a lot of attention from my parents and friends and the girls at school, while my brother just got a little rope burn and some trauma from seeing my head fall off.
My point is, though, that it was my mom who put aside anything that had to do with herself to devote every present moment to her child in danger. You could call it a biological response that all mothers share, but I call it a devoted and unselfish love that happened to burst during my time of need. While her reaction may have actually scared me more than calm me, it was the way she protected me like only my mom could that I will always remember. She held my hand while I whimpered in her lap. She carefully wrapped a towel around my head and managed to comfort me with her gentle hands. I may not ever understand what it means to be a mother, but I certainly will respect my mom for the passion she has for each of her three children. Throughout my teenage years, through college, and up to now, she has shown that if she could have only one thing, it would be that which makes her our mother. And for that, I love her.
Personally, I don't know what she sees in us.So, even though I have forgotten a lot of what has happened in my life, there are those things I can’t forget. That birdhouse may have taken half my head and a lifetime of memories, but I still have my mom.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
(Honorable Mentions go to my Mema and my Mom-in-law, for being both great mothers to their own children and great mother figures for me.)
(Also Mother Theresa, whom was a wonderful mom, I’m sure.)
posted by Jeff at 12:09 AM
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