byChrisWhite – 2018

It is said that every family is a kind of poem. A collection of lines that rhyme when least expected, with stanzas that often don’t make much sense but come together in surprising harmony. Mine, I assure you, is no different, though it might be likened more to a limerick than an ode, full of absurd twists and unanticipated conclusions. And while I’ve occasionally let some of these tales seep through my writings, rarely have I taken the time to open the curtain fully on the people who shaped me. Today, I reckon it’s time I give you a glimpse behind that curtain, at least at one character, the most formidable of them all: my mother.

You see, I’ve written a good bit about family over the years, my brother Mike, whose brave but ultimately tragic journey is still something I work to fully comprehend; my sisters Cindy and Lisa, who endured their share of my mischief, including the infamous Coco Puffs Incident; and my wife, Emily, the sun around which my little world orbits. But of all these figures, the one most deserving of her own spotlight has gone unspoken, much like she herself often chooses to remain, quiet, reserved, the steadfast anchor to our wild ship. It’s high time I put pen to paper, or at least finger to key, to offer a glimpse of the woman who shaped me.

My mother is, quite simply, the most enigmatic person I know. If you met her, you’d see a kind, warm woman with a patient smile and an unassuming demeanor. You might think you’ve got her all figured out, like she’s some simple, quaint character from a small-town novel. But I assure you, you’d be wrong. There’s more complexity within her than can be found in any of the great Russian epics, more surprises than a box of Cracker Jacks. She’s a riddle wrapped in a soft cardigan, and beneath that smile lies a razor-sharp mind and a wit that could put a sailor to shame, if she chose to use it.

Growing up, my mom was my safe harbor, the one I went to when my brother Mike bloodied my nose, or when I had concocted some scheme that was sure to land me in trouble. I remember one particularly strategic display of victimhood: sitting at the kitchen table, nose dripping crimson, for hours until she returned from work. I wanted her to see me there, wounded and pitiful, because I knew that she’d make it all better, or at least act like it was the greatest tragedy ever endured by a child. And maybe that’s the thing about a mother’s love, it doesn’t ask whether you deserve it; it’s simply there, as sure as the morning sun.

But while my mother was my protector, she wasn’t always the nurturing, soft-spoken figure you might be picturing. No, she’s got a bite. The woman is part steel, part silk. She had this remarkable ability to know when to keep her mouth shut, a skill I have yet to master, but she also knew when to speak her mind. And when she chose to speak, it was with both barrels. My siblings and I learned that the hard way, often to our embarrassment or discomfort. But it was never out of malice. My mother was, and still is, a provocateur, someone who relishes shaking the snow globe just to see where the flakes might fall.

Now, my sisters will tell you that I am my mother’s favorite. Whether that’s true or not, I can’t say, but I certainly never wanted to disappoint her, and perhaps that desire has been the driving force behind many of the choices I’ve made. The truth is, she’s made me who I am. She’s given me the tools to navigate this strange world, tools that I have used, abused, and sometimes even lost along the way. And through it all, she’s loved me unconditionally, even when I didn’t deserve it.

My mother is not the stereotypical mom you might see on television. She’s certainly no June Cleaver, though there’s perhaps a hint of Mary Tyler Moore in her, a woman who could juggle a career, a household, and four wild children without ever letting it show how much weight she carried. She’s broken barriers, kicked in doors, and shattered glass ceilings, though she’d never tell you that herself. She’s done things her own way, quietly, without asking for recognition or praise. And maybe that’s why it’s taken me so long to write this, because how do you do justice to someone who never asked for any?

Lately, though, time has begun to show itself, the thief in the night, stealing away the sharpness of her mind and the strength of her body. It’s been hard for me to accept that my mother, the invincible figure of my youth, is growing old. The surgeries have taken their toll, and the mind that once could solve a problem before the rest of us even knew there was one is beginning to slow. And as I sit here writing this, I realize that there’s a cruel irony to it all, that it took me this long to find the words to honor her, and now, she may never read them as fully as I’d like.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe this isn’t for her, maybe it’s for me, and for those who will come after us. Maybe it’s for my son, who deserves to know the woman behind the stories, the woman who shaped his father. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that my mother’s love has shaped me in ways I’ll never fully comprehend. She gave me the gift of words, of thought, of imagination. She gave me the ability to see the world in all its absurdity and beauty, to find humor even in the darkest corners, and to love fiercely, even when it’s hard.

So, here’s to my mother, the enigma, the provocateur, the protector, the lover of cowboy action competitions and ballroom dresses, the woman who taught me that words matter, that love is unconditional, and that sometimes the best thing you can do is sit quietly, observe, and let the world unfold around you. Thank you, Mom, for everything, for the things you said, and for the things you didn’t. For the lessons you taught me, and the ones you let me learn on my own. I am who I am because of you, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Happy Mother’s Day.