Exactly The Right Mother

In 1986, I lusted after a doll named Cricket. I begged, I pleaded, I whined. This doll was the shit. You put a cassette tape into her back, and she would talk. Her lips moved, her eyes rolled around in their sockets and her face was permanently cheery. I know now that my parents debated, agonized over the purchase of the doll as it was a hefty $98 and by 1986 standards that was certainly an investment for a child's toy. Roll forward to Christmas 1986 and I unwrap THE gift, a brand-spanking new Cricket doll of my very own, dressed in a striped sweater. She was perfection, until she was out of the box. Once the cassette tape clicked into her back and she began to talk, 5 year old me realized, in a fraction of a second, that she was terrifying. She was creepy as hell and I instantly thought that Santa must not know me after all. Or maybe he was hammered. My parents beamed at me, thrilled to see me finally holding Cricket on my lap. Of course, I can't recall my exact reaction but I do recall what happened in the weeks following. I hid her in strange places. I put her face down, under the couch cushions. I stuffed her into the back of my closet, I put her behind the toilet. Who knows what they said behind closed doors, after shelling out that kind of cash but they never let me see how my ingratitude irked them. Thanks for taking that on the chin, folks.

From splurging on creepy-ass dolls to making sure that I was always fed, clean, loved and, many times, entertained, I didn't know then just how blessed I was by my parents. I look back now on how many nights, throughout my childhood, my mother spent pressing a cool hand to my forehead while I barfed into a bowl she would have to clean out. Never complaining, never seeming short on patience. Only whispering "That's OK, love. Let it out, you'll be fine." Whether I was 7 or 17, her response was the same-nurturing.

How many times she crawled out of bed at an ungodly hour to drive me to a farm, because that's where I was happiest, in my element. She'd drive me home in the dead of winter, shivering,  with all the windows down; my farm stench unbearable. Despite the stink, she'd get up to do it all again the following Saturday morning, when she was probably itching to sleep in but I was itching to pick manure out of a mare's hooves. Did I ever even thank her? Probably not.

When I became a moody, headstrong and (sometimes) intolerable little bitch in my teenage years, my mother did her best to ensure that we both came out the other side, whole. She bit her lower lip when I was treading on her last nerve, she said "I'm sorry you feel that way, my answer is not changing" when I begged for freedoms I was clearly not ready to handle. She put me in my place when that was exactly what my behavior called for. I know how deeply it cut her when I'd shriek "You don't understand me!!! I HATE YOU". Thing is, I didn't hate her. Not ever. I wanted freedom and independence, I wanted my mommy, I wanted to not want my mommy. I wanted her guidance and approval but I hated wanting it. We came through the ugly teenage years unscathed and I credit her for that.

She has been a light and a treasure to me from the time I drew my first breath. Now, as I adjust the blankets around my sleeping children, kissing their sweaty cheeks, I occasionally feel overwhelmed. Not just by my love for them but by the realization that she must have done this too and felt this way too. She must have slipped into my room to check that my sullen, stubborn 16 year old self was tucked in and sleeping safely. She must have muttered quiet prayers for the strength to manage another day with all of the things on her to-do list, with two demanding kids, with a career and a husband that needed her attention too. She nailed it. She was, and still is, exactly the right mother for me.  If I didn't say it enough then, I'm saying it now: Thank you, mom. For everything.