My mom, my single biggest fan here and in life, has been patiently waiting for me to write an article about her. To be honest, I’ve been procrastinating. It’s seemed like too monumental a task. How can I adequately describe the enormity of our relationship? How can I do justice to the person who has shaped and guided my life like no other? How do I find the words to convey the depths of our special bond? How do I fit all of that on the page? There’s simply no way. I may be good with words, but I’m not sure I’m that good. Nevertheless, here I go. I’ll try my best to make her proud.
My mom has been many things in her life; Daughter, Sister, Wife, Friend, PTA President, Auntie, Teacher, Grandma… but first and foremost, she’s been Mom. I would say that title defines her more than any of the others; and rightfully so, because being a mom has been her greatest source of joy. It’s the job into which she has poured her heart and soul for well over half a century.
My mom absolutely adores babies. She’ll stop what she’s doing to gush over a stranger’s baby whenever we’re out, so you can only imagine how in love she must’ve been with her own babies. She tells us how she would kiss our chubby cheeks and chomp on our fat legs till we were red. While I obviously don’t remember any of this, I do remember being loved and adored in so many ways when I was growing up.
She was a homemaker, always present, kissing us goodbye in the morning when we left for school and waiting for us with open arms upon our return in the afternoon. In fact, my very dear and oldest childhood friend laughs to this day about the fact that when we used to walk to school together, she would arrive at my house extra early just so that my mom and I would have enough time to go through our ritual of goodbye kisses.
When I was young, for friends’ birthday parties, she would dress me in a frilly party dress, knee socks and black patent-leather Mary Janes, and then proclaim that I’d be the prettiest girl at the party. Every. Single. Time. And she said it with such conviction, I believed her. Growing up, on Monday nights at 8 o’clock, the two of us would meet up in her room to watch Little House on the Prairie and eat ice cream sundaes. Every. Single. Week. Monday night was my favorite night of the week for many years. And through my early teenage years, we spent countless hours together in the kitchen preparing three-course family dinners from scratch or baking decadent homemade desserts. (Almost) Every. Single. Night. There was no one I’d rather spend my time with than her.
As I grew older, she was always available for whatever I needed. She wasn’t just physically present; she gave me her full attention. She was busy, but she would stop whatever she was doing to listen to me. She would laugh at my funny anecdotes, offer solutions for my quandaries, and cry along with me at my heartaches. We cuddled a lot. She comforted me always. When I was overwhelmed with homework in high school, she would do whatever she could to lighten my load. I remember sitting beside her, exhausted at night, while she read aloud to me, classics like The Jungle, so that I could rest my eyes and still complete my assignments on time. There was simply no mom like mine.
After college, I ran off to Israel like a pioneer in the ‘40s answering a Calling. I lived there for almost two years -- it was some of the happiest time of my life. I was young and carefree. I was in love with the Land and fell madly in love with a sabra. I was going to stay, make Aliyah, and have a bunch of mocha babies.
Until I realized I couldn’t. During my time in Israel, I would often have vivid dreams where I was with my mom. We weren’t doing anything remarkable; we were just together. And I would awaken devastated that I couldn’t be with her. It was like a physical pain, an actual deprivation that would leave me weeping. I craved my mom. I needed to be with her. She came to represent everything I would be forced to give up by moving halfway around the world: my family, friends, country, language, culture, food, familiarity. (Remember, this was the early ‘90s. None of us had personal computers with internet. No emails, no cellphones, no texting, no facetime. We would write letters on aerograms, and I would call home only once a week, every Sunday because that’s when it was cheapest.) As a 24-year-old, I had the foresight to know I couldn’t live the rest of my life so far away from her. So, I returned home brokenhearted but fortified by my mom’s love and devotion.
My mom would proclaim me to be strong, wise, and independent, while insisting she’s none of those things. But everything I am is because of her. She was my teacher and role-model in all things. I am a fierce advocate for my kids from watching her. I learned to stay calm in the eye of a storm and problem-solve from her example. I remain optimistic even after crippling defeat because of her outlook on life. She has been my greatest ally, closest confidant, and most ardent cheerleader. I’ve never had a reason to doubt her support: she has always been on my side, she has always validated my perspective, and she has always seen and heard me. I am a rare and lucky daughter indeed.
My mom is now 80. We still talk every day, sometimes more than once. I tell her everything. My kids know that as soon as they tell me something, grandma will know because it’s impossible that it won’t slip from my lips in the course of our daily conversations. During Covid, when we weren’t going into each other’s homes with the ease and regularity of before, my mom started driving to my house where we’d meet and catch up outside. These spontaneous get-togethers have become so cherished that we’ve continued doing it, but now we sit in her car in my driveway. We call them our “car play dates,” and we can spend up to an hour together, chatting, laughing and kissing. (Yes, we still kiss. I simply love kissing my mom’s cheeks and, in turn, being kissed by her.)
I am sympathetic to the fact that many women my age no longer have their moms with them, and I acknowledge how blessed I am every day. There is no one like a mom and there is no mom like mine. I understand on a basal level that she won’t be around forever, that there is a finite amount of time she has left. And yet, contemplating a world without her literally knocks the air out of me, leaving me breathless. People say it’s a shame they don’t get to hear their own eulogies, because rarely in life do we tell others how much they mean to us, how profound a mark they leave on our lives, how much we love them. So, my precious momma, while this is NOT your eulogy, I hope I’ve given the world a sense of what you mean to me, how your presence in my life is unparalleled, and how very deeply and truly I love you.
Thank you for sharing such a sweet and loving message to your Mom, Jodi! I get you!
I, too, was ultra blessed to be the youngest of six kids our Mom beautifully refereed until she died in my fifteenth year, her fifty-fifth. I joke with my older siblings that she should have worn a striped black and white shirt as she gracefully and lovingly explained fairness and kindness and Jesus’s motto of “treat others how you want them to treat you” as we fought over who’d be the “banker” in a friendly game of monopoly or a card game or fighting over the television channel. Yep! It was within our Mother’s eyes and holding onto her apron strings where we found the comfort and encouragement to become her little mini-me’s, to boldly walk the road less travelled without her constant presence when she “slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God!”
Years ago, I found this ode a fellow wrote to his Mom which fit my Mom beautifully that I’ll share with you below.
I’m grateful that your Mom has been with you throughout your life, to cheer you on, to give you her sage advice, and yes, to comfort you with all of those hugs and kisses that mean more than one could ever express, especially when those moments become the living memory of a Mom who has gone too soon.
Here’s to you and your Mom in remembrance of mine! We will only have one to last our own lifetimes. They deserve to be honored and respected for all the little things, that end up being big things, in the scheme of our lives. God bless you and all of your loved ones... especially your Mom!
Mother...Mom ~
You breathed life into a hollow place and stood tall and proud as it was filled and stretched with the sound of a new heartbeat. Who held the hands that swam inside of you and watch the first of many cords be cut and smirked at the realization that those you carried will never be severed.
You, who frosted the cakes and stirred the oats and blew on the spoons when too much heat swirled upon them. Who told the stories and read the books and filled in the details with the voices and sounds of magic and mystery.
Who put herself last, always last, so that so many others could understand the way it feels to be first. Who grew tears in her eyes but never let them fall.
You, who sang the alphabet and packed lunches and killed the spiders and fasten the seatbelts and wash the dishes and folded mountains of laundry without ever bothering to plant your flag at the top to show the world the effort it takes to survive a day.
Who kissed the scrapes and healed the aches and always knew what color popsicle would sooth a throbbing throat the fastest.
You, the Mother, the Mom, the strongest most vibrant and perfectly beautiful Mother, thank you. Thank you!
~ Tyler Knott Gregson