Mothers Day

I’m not a mom. I never will be a mom.

I’m sure that’s a shock to some of you.

Weirdos.

But today is Mother Day, 2023. I have sisters who are moms. I have a cat who was a mom to nine kittens before I adopted her. The kittens had already been adopted.

And, of course, I have a mom. I say that in the present tense because, even though her body has expired, her spirit lives on eternally.

I was married for 13 years. We never had children.

My mother was born in 1932. The height—or depths—of the depression. She was born into a hard-working pioneering farm family; outhouse, pet pig, chores and all.

Her name was Glennetta. Like her name, there was no other like her in the world.

I wasn’t always the best son, though my siblings would probably agree that for whatever reason, I was her favorite. She would have denied that.

She did her best to give all of her kids equal love and affection. I think she did a good job of it, never mind that she had six of us to juggle.

She loved to sing. That’s one of my earliest memories of her.

Her singing had an absent-minded quality to it; music sure did fill the house, especially when I was younger.

She would play records to entertain me in the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen from where she could keep an eye on me as she did kitchenly, Betty Crockery things.

This was years before Martha Stewart became a household name.

My favorite song back then was The Little Drummer Boy, that Christmas classic sung by … Andy Williams? Or Bing Crosby. Not the duet with David Bowie.

I’m wandering into the weeds. This post is about my mom.

She was a stay-at-home mom long before WFH was a thing. Then my little sisters came along. Twins. Our family outgrew the house on Juneau Road.

We moved to Ann Arbor in the summer of ‘71. Compared to the post-war housing of Hickory Hills, our new house was a mansion.

I was 6 years old and qualified for my own room. All of the four older kids got our own rooms. The twins shared a room, which was only fair since they had shared a womb.

I knew nothing of my family’s finances. My dad was a CPA, but when my teacher had us play the game when you say what your dad does for a living, my answer was what my mom had told me: he makes money.

Little did she realize that I took that literally, thinking my dad actually printed money.

It was sort of a Kindergarten Cop moment, except I was in 2nd grade. “It’s not a tumor!”

Eventually my mom got a job outside the home. And then a second job. Although my dad was a gifted forensic accountant, he never charged what he was worth.

My mom’s jobs were out of necessity.

She was always there for her children, even to a fault. Although not in the best of health in later life, we could all depend on her to listen and love us, regardless of the problem.

For years, it was only my brother and I who lived close to Mom. Everyone else lived out of town or out of state.

My brother had his wife and sons. He usually did something special for the mother of his children. My sisters would all call, send cards, flowers, or other gifts.

A Mothers Day tradition for my mother and me grew organically from the fact that I had no children and naturally wanted to do something special for my mom on her day.

She loved to plant flowers, so we would visit local nurseries that would always have Mothers Day sales. She would buy several flats, and then I would treat her to lunch at the restaurant of her choosing.

She kept it simple. It was always Applebees or Chili’s.

In later years, she hid her poor health from us until it was too late. She worked up until the day before she was hospitalized. Thanksgiving Day, 2011.

She never came home from the hospital until she left her body behind.

So when I talk about my mom, it’s a mixture of past and present tense, joy and sadness, love, hope, and above all, gratitude. She’s no longer here in the flesh, but she’s with me every time I think of her. That is often.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom! Keep rocking that spirit world!