Mom

Mom would have been 65 today. She always got a kick out of it when her birthday fell on a Friday the 13th.

She was pretty silly, and never embarrassed to be so in public - a trait I really appreciate now, though of course as a teenager I didn't like it so much. One time in a card shop she loudly remarked to me that one man is as good as another: turn 'em upside down and they all look alike! I don't remember the context, but I do remember blushing furiously and looking around to make sure there was nobody within earshot. And then of course there was the infamous "jerking off in the parking lot" incident. Mooommmmmmmm!

When I was little I thought she was the prettiest mom in the neighborhood, and of course she was. All the other moms seemed fairly ordinary. But mine had long flowing hair, and a light-up-the-room smile, and laughed all the time. I felt lucky that my mom was so special. She did crazy things like get me up after bedtime, on a whim, a summer evening when it was still light out, and piggyback me around the neighborhood; or play "Spinning Wheel" on the piano while bouncing me on her lap; or carry me up and down the hallway on her shoulders, singing a silly song and hopping along in time. One time she got mad at me for bursting into tears while she was playing Debussy's "Clair de Lune," but I wasn't crying because I didn't like it, but because it was so beautiful. Chopin always brings her instantly to mind, now. And the smell of good coffee (nobody else makes it like she did) and of filing cabinets, oddly enough - she kept all her sheet music in a tall fusty-smelling metal filing cabinet.

She was a Julia Child fan and an excellent cook, but couldn't clean house to save her life. There were always alien life forms evolving in the back of the fridge, papers and clutter covering every horizontal surface, stinking kitty litter boxes, and dirty dishes in the kitchen sink piled higher than the tap. Her piano studio was always clean, though. Her dream house had a piano studio with a separate entrance that could be closed off completely from the mess in the rest of the house.

Everything I know about housecleaning I learned from my mom. My dad's orderly and neat, but apparently those genes are recessive.

She had a really hard time saying no. "Let me think about it" was a common refrain during my teenage years. Her solution was to put off a decision until the issue in question had just gone away. But she could often be nagged, begged, coaxed, wheedled, or harangued into doing whatever her kids wanted.

Mom remembered birthdays, but usually a day late. She always felt terrible about it. She was warm and loving, affectionate and generous, just a little absent-minded. Her worst quality was flakiness. The last time I saw her, I had driven from Austin to Birmingham, Alabama to meet her at my grandparents' house and pick up my son, who had spent the summer with her in DC. It was almost two full days' drive, and in the late afternoon when I arrived, she told me she'd be going back home the next day. I was stunned and upset, but she was very worried about the impact of our visit on her elderly parents. She wouldn't stay a few days longer in a motel, because she was worried that would hurt Grandmother's feelings. So I had to turn around and drive right back home after spending only one night, and had almost no time to visit with Mom, whom I almost never saw. I was bitterly disappointed and so upset that I didn't speak to her for a couple of months. Thank goodness that was all over and forgiven long before her final illness, but I never did get to see her again, and I hate that it worked out that way.

I can clearly hear her voice on the phone, though. We talked on the phone a lot. She was cheery and breezy, warm and sweet, and always lots of fun. She had this half-laugh in her voice when she greeted you, and would chat cozily about her piano students and their parents, her music, my sisters, her parents. She listened with eager sympathy to whatever I had to say about my kids, my job, anything I wanted to vent about or laugh at or ask advice about. Later she would talk about how much she missed her teaching, which she loved and was fantastic at, but had to give up because the chemotherapy broke down her immune system. She very rarely talked about the cancer. There were a few times she'd get disheartened and reveal her fear and break down and cry, but then she'd collect herself and apologize. I cried too, but only out of sympathy. I didn't share her fear, because I never doubted for a moment that this would pass and she'd be fine. Moms don't die, they just don't, they just can't.

I wish I could pick up the phone and wish her a happy birthday.