Mother's Day Gift Ideas

What to get the mom who has everything…including cancer.

I’m having a hard time knowing what to get my mom this mother’s day. My mom’s got it all. She has a great wardrobe she can no longer wear, lots of pots and pans she can’t use, jewelry that no longer fits or is appropriate, books that no longer keep her attention, so many arts and crafts that she can’t understand, enough pillows and blankets, plenty of food and flowers…and a whole lot of cancer. Everywhere. In her back. In her skull. Maybe her brain, who knows…

Friends ask me how my mom is and I want to say, “She’s dying.” But I can’t. That’s not what my mother would want and I can’t help but hear her own words in my ear:  “I’m good, Meg.”

I stop by when I can, which is not often enough, and I ask her how she is. Every time I do this, don’t ask me why. Maybe because I like the response,  “I’m good, Meg.” I’m frustrated, angry, and impatient about work, the kids, the dog and cats, the everything there is to do…and she’s ‘good.’

When I visit I try to think of anything to tell her that I may have missed the last time. I tell her how the kids are doing in school and what funny thing they said the other day. I ask her questions that I think she might remember the answers to: “How do you make pea soup?” “What was the name of that guy that was in that play you directed…?” “Who has come to visit you today?” “What did you have for lunch?” I try to stay away from topics such as shopping or what show I’m going to see, my plans for the weekend or what restaurant I visited last, what book I’m reading or what project I’m working on. These, I think are what she misses most. Being confined in her house in a hospital bed affords a lot of luxuries like having my dad, God bless him, wait on her hand and foot but doesn’t allow going out to eat, going for a car ride, going to see a play…going anywhere.

My brothers don’t seem to have the same problem coming up with conversation. They can talk about sports and weather and work forever it seems. But I’m her daughter. Her only one. And that’s different somehow. Somehow it makes me think of what I would want if I were in her place. How I would want my kids to act? It reminds me that I’m a mom too and that there’s no other person in the world that can take the place of your mom. And that’s scary to think about both as a mom and someone who’s losing her mom.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask because I can’t think of anything else to say. This one she always answers the same “Do for me what I would do for you.” Boy, that’s hard. She would come visit me every day. She would know, somehow, what I needed without having to ask. She would be accommodating to the point of annoyance. She would cry. And she would never give up on me.

I think I just answered my own question.

Happy Mother’s Day

A Good Ache

     I woke up this morning with an ache that ran across my shoulders and neck. At first I couldn't figure it out. I hadn't done transcribing yesterday or a lot of typing...oh, yeah, I worked both Saturday and Sunday at Jitters Cafe' - the ache was from busing the heavy plates, lifting the chafing dishes and cleaning the tables...it was a good ache. It reminded me that this was day 9 of  nine straight working days, to pay the bills, help out a friend, be eligible for another job at the police station, make the ends meet...
     I woke up this morning to my husband Joel climbing in next to me. He had just gotten back from driving dump truck overnight. He barely said anything before he drifted off as I was getting out of bed to get ready for work. I really wanted to stay in the coziness, wanted it so bad it ached...a good ache. The ache of teamwork, a solid marriage and a firm, understanding relationship.
     The aches of a job well done, be it gardening, doing the dishes, bringing home the bacon, carrying a child, driving a car, truck or bus, working hard to make time off that much sweeter; these are the good aches. Aches you've earned. They don't hurt any less but they are much more tolerable than ones we earn from acting younger than we are, overdoing anything, stress or worry. They remind me that I'm doing the best I can. A sort of pat on the back that stays with me.

Making Pancakes

     Earnhardt is almost twelve. That means he's 8 in girl years, right? When I was almost twelve, I was being paid a dollar an hour to watch my three cousins, one who was only a few years younger than I. We broke a fish tank. That gig ended after that.
      Occasionally I test the theory that Earnhardt might be old enough to babysit his younger brother, Carson. I go grocery shopping and leave him in charge, things like that. I recently tried an experiment and had them get their own lunch while I was away. I'm thinking PB&J sandwiches....
     Over the phone: "So, did you guys have lunch?" Yeah. "What did you have?" Pancakes. "What??" I made pancakes. "Huh? You did?" Yeah, but we didn't have enough Bisquick so I kind of had to wing it.
"What do you mean, 'wing it'?" Well, I wasn't sure how much flour and whether to use baking powder or baking soda... "What did the recipe say?" It didn't say on the Bisquick box so I just tried to remember. "Huh? Did you use a recipe?" No. "No?" No, I just tried to remember how Um-Um (Joel's mom) did it when she made pancakes so I put in a cup and a half of flour, half a cup of sugar, two eggs, milk... "Wait, you made pancakes from scratch? Without a recipe???" Yeah. But I wasn't sure about the baking powder or baking soda so I didn't put either in and they came out a little dense but they're still good. We saved you some. "Thanks. (I think) Dense?" We saved you ones without the Goldfish and marshmallows. "What?" I put Goldfish and marshmallows in them.

      I'd like to say this says something about me as a parent. That this kid of mine not only attempted to cook for his little brother but made something from scratch without a recipe. He's spent some time with me (and Um-Um) in the kitchen. He's confident with himself and the stove. He's responsible. He likes marshmallows. I'd like to say I taught him that confidence, that responsibility, that vocabulary... but I think, instead, it says something about me as a kid. I never would have attempted such a fete at his age. I wouldn't have gone near the stove. I probably would have waited for mom to come home and complained about how hungry I was. I would have just gotten by.  I certainly didn't know what dense meant.

     Maybe, just maybe Earnhardt's generation isn't as bad off as I once thought, not being able to survive without cell phones and X-box, Kindles and computers, Froot Loops and Pop Tarts. Maybe they can still be taught, if not hard-wired, to make more than toast. Maybe he'll be able to do laundry before he reaches college. Already he asks me, each and every day, how my day was when I pick him up from school. I wrack my brain trying to remember what I had for dinner as a kid, what I did to help out around the house, when I learned certain life lessons and I usually draw a blank and yet somehow I feel like my own two boys are packing away every piece of information like this. I say this because I get quizzed on it daily; "Do you remember when, Mommy, you dropped me off at Lisa's house to take Earnhardt to the theatre and she made gingerbread men with me?" "Do you remember when I didn't want to go to Nana's and stay over night that time and you said I had to because you had something to do and I was okay?" "Do you remember the time Daddy had the keys to the Tahoe and we walked to McDonald's?" I do remember and I wonder what else they remember. How else they are watching and learning from what I'm doing? It makes me realize I need to be especially careful now that I see I'm under such scrutiny. I think I might be a role model and it makes me wonder if I might be able to take a little credit for their wonderful little selves in the long run.   

Want My Identity?

     Not that long ago my mother and I were at the counter in JC Penney making a purchase. The saleslady behind the counter did what salesladies so often do and tried to entice my mother to sign up for a store credit card, offering her more savings on her purchase if she did. My mother was not going for it. She was very reluctant. The saleslady told her exactly how much she would save once approved. I goaded my mother into taking the bait. We, the saleslady and I, were this close to signing mom up for the credit card and then the lady requested my mother to use the "pin pad" to enter her social security number into the computer. Mom put on the brakes, for good. She wasn't having it. She didn't like the idea of entering her social security number for JC Penney or anybody.
     It wasn't until we got back home did mom explain that she was concerned about identity theft.
"C'mon, mom, really, who's gonna want your identity anyway? You're a 69 year old woman with cancer and three crummy kids. Nobody is gonna want to be YOU!"
     Of course I say this with tongue and cheek. Of course I know what identity theft is and that it's a horrible crime. But it makes you think. Identity theft is all about the numbers; your social security number, your bank account number, your credit card numbers and I suppose we gave this particular theft the most convenient name we could think of. But these numbers; they are not really our identity. Whatever numbers you can steal from me would not change my friends, those I love or who I really am...my identity.
     My friend, Jay, and I recently joked about if someone were to hack our computers; they'd take from us the recent list of emails of cast members in the upcoming show, our brand new Angry Birds Space (which we both agree is more frustrating than fun), and maybe our recent credit card statements which you can feel free to pay off for us if you wish.
     It's not that I don't take identity theft seriously; it's that I query the phraseology used to describe the crime. My identity is summed up in what I do, the company I keep, how I spend my time, not my dollars. My friends aren't famous and don't have expensive cars and vacation homes, but they're there whenever I need them and sometimes when I don't think I do. I don't have any glamorous job but I'm lucky enough to get on stage a few times a year and do my soul the favor of putting on a costume and challenging myself to learn a bookful of lines. I don't have an enviable lifestyle but it offers me time to spend with my kids and husband, my mom and dad, my family and friends and sometimes, time all to myself... I guess you can't steal all that from me, but now I'm beginning to see why you'd want to.

Obsess Much?

My son, Earnhardt and I were watching TV one night as we so often do and came across a channel that  advertised a show called "Obsessed Moms" or something to that effect. The commercial depicted seemingly normal moms with slightly weird obsessions. Immediately I turned to Earnhardt and said in a voice a little bit too loud, "I'm not obsessed." Perhaps I was loud because of the look he was giving me. Perhaps it was the pile of fifteen cookbooks in front of me that I was going through and meticulously putting bookmarks in on the pages that had recipes I wanted to try. Perhaps it's because maybe I am obsessed, a little.
Okay, so I'm obsessed. By cookbooks and recipes, yes, but by so much more and there really isn't any such thing as being a little obsessed because that's the whole point of obsession; you have to go whole hog.
I subscribed to cooking magazines as well as belong to a cookbook  book club. I watch a lot of cooking reality shows. I have two clipboards hanging in my kitchen chocked with recipes; one is for non-meat recipes, the other is recipes with meat. I have folders and binders full of recipes that I've torn out of the magazines I buy, that I dog eared just for that purpose. The folders and binders have labels like, "Cocktails," "Appetizers," "Entrees," etc. I have over 50 cookbooks, old and new with little sticky notes in them, bookmarked and more dog ears. I intend to make every last dish. My friend, Lisa, after having read and seen "Julie and Julia" refused to give me "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" for fear she and her family would become guinea pigs to the experiment I would most certainly attempt just as Julie had done. "I'm not eating Aspic for anyone," she bemoaned. But she's right, I would have and so far have not received the book nor bought it. I don't have the time. Some day...
This obsession with recipes and cookbooks and food in general might not be much to complain about if that was where it ended. But, of course, it doesn't end there.
When I wash and dry and iron and put away my clothes they have a certain order; not by color or length or season, but by what was worn last. My underwear drawer is set up so that everything is on rotation; bras, underwear, socks - all of them must be newcomers to the back and move everything else up so that everything is worn in order. Every "one" gets a chance. Same goes for my clothes. This really helps me figure out what I'm wearing and what and why I'm not wearing other things. That's my excuse. Reality is; I'm obsessed with giving every outfit fair play. I like things in order. I "play" with my clothes. I can spend an entire day matching up outfits together with the appropriate jewelry hanging from the hangers. I constantly "shop my closet" for new outfits and ideas I haven't yet tried.
I've already ordered my reading books, no, not in alphabetically order (I'm not anal, I'm obsessed) but in the order in which I want to read them. I read one "have to" and then one "want to." Have to's are classics, want to's are best sellers and the like. I don't go anywhere without a book; "in case I get bored" i.e. sitting at a gas station, red light, lunch with someone opposite me texting... I also have a stack of magazine pages with book reviews of books I don't have already and want to read. When someone asks if I've read something I usually say, "it's on the list.."
In my car I have a basket between the two seats. In the basket the box of tissues is always in the upper right corner while the container of pens and my sunglasses are in the bottom left-hand corner. The first aid kit is in the door and the bag that has a change of clothes for everyone is in the way back. I have extra napkins, straws and wetnaps just in case. I have chap stick on my key chain. I always pull out my cup holder before I get my drink at the drive through and I always say thank you after I order.
In my kitchen, my wooden spoons are in one container while the rubber spatulas are in another. Don't you dare put my peeler in the second drawer where I can't find it, it belongs with the silverware because of it's size. I only like to eat with the heavier forks (where previously I preferred the salad fork because I have a small mouth, regardless of what my brothers think). I drink 16 ounces of water every morning but prefer not to call it "my water" because it annoys me when someone is on a fitness kick and refers to things as "my" (i.e. I have to eat my banana now. I have to go on my walk. I need to take my vitamin...) get over it, it's a banana, a walk and a vitamin.
Maybe I'm not like the mom on TV who was caught saying, "Honey, I know you just broke your arm, but mommy has to work out before we go home." I know I'm not quite that bad yet but I know I'm on my way. I'm trying not to let my obsessions run my life. I've been working very hard at it. Actually, I'm kind of obsessed with it.

Rotary E-mails

On or two times a month there's this other thing I do. I cook for the Rotary Club. Believe it or not, I'm one of the head chefs in my organization. (Sounds good doesn't it?)I belong to the Pittsfield Players, a community theatre group, and one of our fundraisers is to cater the Rotary Club dinners. The Players and The Women of Rotary are the only two non-profit organizations who take advantage of this opportunity every single month. Other non-profits have different times of year they want to raise a little extra money and sometimes the Rotarians cook for themselves.

My mother belongs to The Women of Rotary and both groups have this down to a science. It's just that one science is more basic Anatomy while the other is Bio-Chemistry. I'm saying that The Women of Rotary are probably a lot more organized. They probably meet at the end of the year to decide on the next YEAR, like who is cooking and what and when. My group doesn't. That's not to say we're not organized. We are. But you should see the emails.

Usually they start with, "who's cooking?" Who's the head chef? Who is deciding the menu? (This is an easy one) It's either me or Jon. I'm a 40-year-old part-time-stay-at-home-mom, part-time waitress, part-time transcriptionist/secretary, part-time cleaning lady and, of course, amateur actress. Of course.

Jon is a retired Reverend with a hell of a voice and a very sharp wit, an excellent cook, actor and stage manager. Yeah, we've got this down to a science: I send out an email to say what day we're cooking and what we're having. (Roast pork with mango salsa this time.) I ask Mike to make a salad and Geri to make bread. These are kind of their "jobs," their niches. Then I request two side dishes and a dessert. I tell them there's a sort of a theme and it's Mexican, with Cinco De Mayo coming up and all.

My group loves themes. "Mike, I want you to make a corn and black bean salad. Geri, you make corn bread or muffins, whichever you decide." Mike loves to make the salad. He loves when I tell him what to do. Mike is retired military, so is his wife, Nella but Nella doesn't get a say in this dinner because she will be ringing bells that night...Mike responds with, "I've looked up several recipes on the Internet but I'm not sure I can find iguana meat online...I'll keep looking."

Geri is a music director and I'm not sure what else because we only met four months ago and I've seen her four times. I do know she has gorgeous red hair and no electricity and a car that overheats. She also sends Hallmark e-cards for every occasion. Geri emails (from work) that she is going to coerce Carole to make the bread/muffins because Geri wants to make chili/chocolate cupcakes with butter cream frosting for dessert. I don't know what Carole does because I've never seen her at Rotary but her salad arrived with Geri once. I know that she's a great character actress with a cool voice.

Gay-Ann Chimes in. It's a very long chime.

She says that whenever we do a Mexican theme she always makes her taco salad but sometimes leaves off the Doritos because not everyone is a fan of Doritos and she never puts in meat because everyone's vegetarian nowadays but she sees that I asked Mike to make the salad and it's a black bean and corn salad and she doesn't think her banana split cake would make a very good Mexican themed dessert so she's really at a loss as to what to make because Mike's making the salad and she always makes her taco salad...without the Doritos.

I respond that one of their salads can be a side dish but they have to duke it out whose it's going to be. I also tell Mike that he can find iguana meat at Market Basket, duh. Mike stands his ground. Gay-Ann acquiesces in uncommon brevity and queries whether whether Mike is serious about the iguana meat. Gay-Ann is a part-time receptionist, a character actress and known in these parts as a 'theatre whore,' meaning she can be found almost every weekend in a theatre, ushering, attending or being in a show.

Jan doesn't respond to our emails. We always have to call to remind her but she always shows up. Jan is our costume mistress and drives a school bus for a living. I once dated one of her four sons and have known her forever. I can count on her to do the dishes.

In the meantime I find a recipe for cilantro rice cakes that might just fit the bill for the other side dish. Our menu is always; bread, salad, entree, two sides and dessert. Sometimes we remember to brew the coffee. But Nella usually brings the half and half and she'll be at bell rehearsal.

Mike emails telling me the Market Basket iguana is from Chili and everyone knows Chilean iguana is in mating season right now which makes for some very tough and cranky meat.

Gay-Ann is thoroughly confused.

Momma Told Me There'd Be Days Like These

     Tuesday mornings I visit with mom. I'll give it to you right off the bat...Mom has cancer. The big C. Which means, you guessed it...I have to be nice to her, even though she's my mom. Even when she says "Did you comb your hair this morning? It doesn't look like it." I can't say "You're just jealous I have hair!" Actually I can. I think. I'm pretty sure we have that relationship, but it can be tricky sometimes.
     Sometimes I show up and clean the bathroom and wash the dishes. Sometimes we just sit and talk then go to lunch. Sometimes she's not even there and I vacuum, re-organize her pantry and clean her fridge. Sometimes we go get a pedicure. Sometimes she calls and tells me not to come. Sometimes that's a relief. Because sometimes she says, "Did you try on those jeans I gave you?" and I say, "No, mom, they're a size 16." and she says, "But they'll stretch." I'm a size 12 by the way...and I'm not ashamed to tell you that. But I am ashamed to tell you that mom wears me out sometimes.
     And sometimes she goes to Florida or Vermont or somewhere and she's not there for three or four Tuesdays and I miss her and I wonder what it will be like to never have her again and then I stop wondering because it hurts too much to wonder that.
     "How's your mom doing?" takes on a whole new meaning for me now.
     How's your mom doing? "She's doing okay." "She's having a bad day." "She's not doing very well." "She's dying..." There I said it. She told me recently that the doctor told her she will actually live longer than he originally expected but she'll be in a lot more pain. Huh. Reminds me of the worm the boys "saved" from burning in the sun on the driveway. They brought it onto the porch and put it on the table. One of the cats ate half of it. It lived longer but it's in a lot more pain. Huh.