Tribute to My Unsung Hero

My mom is turning 49. Yep, she's young. As most moms experience, she hasn't had that much in the way of awards or celebrations of her life accomplishments, because while she's had various "outside the home jobs" in her life, she's mostly focused her attention and passion on her "inside the home" jobs, of which there have been many evolutions.

I was born a month after my mom's 16th birthday. She found out she was pregnant with me when she had pneumonia in the spring of her 15th year, in ninth grade. She had been dating my dad, who was newly in the Navy, for a couple of years. He had recently turned 18. They had a very difficult series of decisions to make early in life. My mom tells me that the nurses and doctors at the hospital tried to talk my grandmother into persuading my mother into an abortion. My grandmother even considered it. However, my mother tells me she never had a second of doubt that she had been given a gift. In fact, she said that her pastor came to see her in the hospital because she had pneumonia. He didn't know she was pregnant. She asked him a question, "Reverend, if God gives you a gift and you reject it, will he be angry with you?"

Reverend Humphreys was the perfect life coach that day. He facilitated my mother's answer to her own question by asking her very powerful questions. He explained to her that she already knew in her heart what the answer was, and that she would do what was right for her and for her family. She said, "Yes, I do know, and these people want me to reject God's gift, and I don't want to. I love Dennis and I love any baby I have with him."

My mom gained 42 pounds before I was born, she says, all over. I guess she retained a lot of water. At 16, it came off instantly when I was born. She went home in her pre-pregancy blue jeans. When my mom went into labor, she had been up having fun all night and eating all sorts of things. She didn't know she was in labor when she had a stomach ache, and just thought she overdid it with the junk food. My grandmother had to tell her she was in labor. She said that initially she was scared, because the older women who were in the labor and delivery area on the same corridor were moaning and screaming and swearing at their husbands. They wouldn't let my dad in the room because my parents were not married yet and she was a minor. Her doctor told her if she just followed his directions, it would be over soon and she'd be fine, that it wasn't that bad. I was born with relative ease one day before my dad's 19th birthday.

One month later, my mother was a 16 year old bride, marrying my dad before the same Reverend who had counseled her several months earlier. They married in late February, and it snowed 21 inches that day. The photographer didn't show up, so they only have a few bad quality snapshots from family members. They only had punch and cake in the basement of the church, and my mom wore the gown of my dad's great-aunt who also made their cake. My mom was on pain meds during the ceremony, because her 12 year old sister had accidentally spilled all the pins on the floor while the bridal party was getting ready, and my mom stepped on a needle that broke off in her foot. She had emergency surgery to remove the needle and was advised to walk down the isle on crutches. Instead, her older brother half carried her down the isle. That's why she looks so dreamy in her wedding photos. I asked my mom why she looked sad in her wedding picture once when I was little, and she said, "I was stoned out of my mind! Your father was basically carrying me on the dance floor." More than 300 people showed up for my parents' simple wedding, despite the blizzard. I guess I was at the wedding for a little while. On the way to the motel that my grandmother rented for my parents (because they lived with my grandma at the time and didn't want to spend their wedding night down the hall from in-laws) they witnessed a fatal car accident and my dad got out of the car in his dress Navy blues and helped, giving his jacket as a blanket to someone who was in shock. My mom describes her wedding day as a disaster but my parents are still happily married 33 years later.

During those early years, my mom worked as a bartender and waitress during the hours that my dad was home from his factory job so they didn't have to pay for child care. She also went to school during the day, trying to complete high school, and my grandmother and aunts took care of me while she attended classes. We lived in a couple of apartments, including one that had only a rickety fire escape-type stairway to the living area over a store.

My mom had her second baby, my sister, almost four years later. At which time my father had a great job, but was terminated illegally for leaving to attend my sister's birth. The health insurance was cancelled and many of the hospital bills were left unpaid. Three months after my sister was born, I was hit by a car and severely injured. The driver had no insurance. My parents' home owner's policy refused coverage because it was an occupant who was injured on the premise. With no health insurance and medical bills that were mounting and impossible to repay, and with two small children to feed, a mortgage for their first house that they just moved into, and two car payments for vehicles they had recently purchased, my parents were left with no recourse but bankruptcy.

As a result of the bankruptcy, unlike what happens today, my parents had absolutely no credit, no credit cards, no lines of credit, no home equity loans, no car loans, nothing, for years. They kept their house and one car, but for most of my childhood they had to pay cash for everything, including cars. As you can imagine, being that they were in their 20s, we drove around in a few real bombs, and my mom used layaway to buy us school clothes and Christmas presents every year. I used to complain that we could only shop at certain stores, or that I couldn't have a certain name brand of jeans, or that our truck had 8 colors on its different panels and backfired. When my mom said I couldn't have something, she didn't just say no, because I was a lawyer already at birth. So she would pull out her checkbook and show me the balance. She'd say, "See, I have $126.42 for the month, and I still have to buy groceries. So you tell me, Professor Boyle, how you can have that. If you can find a way, you can have it."

My mom sacrificed for what she believed in. She believed that her children should be raised by her, with her values and discipline, and not by a daycare or someone else. She valued being home if we sick, or when we got home from school, or during the holidays and summers. She valued having a meal ready for us and for our dad when we came home. She valued keeping a nice, clean and comfortable home. My mom was home most of the time, when I was little, and she cleaned every single day, cooked meals virtually every day, and even baked treats for us and decorated our house like a wonderland. Her sacrifices were many so that she could do that for us.

She never graduated from high school, because it was so hard to study and work and take care of a newborn and then another child later. Instead, she earned her GED right before I graduated from high school. She never went to college. Instead, she received various certifications over the years in interior design as well as manicure and pedicure technologist. My mom is extremely talented in most things artistic. She has an eye for detail. She knows how to put things together in a way that most people couldn't begin to. She is brilliant at home interior design, garden design, floral design, painting, ceramics, faux finishes, sewing, crafts, you name it. She doesn't have a degree in any of the above. She taught herself by making a nice home for our family and by making gifts for others. She didn't have much of a social life in her teens and twenties. She didn't go to prom. She didn't date much, but I guess she found her prince charming early. She was very lucky that way. She didn't go to wild parties in her twenties or climb a ladder on the career path. She made her own priorities.

My favorite time of the year was always just before Christmas. We still had school, so she would haul all of the decorations out of the basement and attic and transform our house into a life-sized gingerbread house while we were gone. We would come home from school and there were lights everywhere. Not a nook went untrimmed. Even the bathroom had Santa Claus hand towels and our bedrooms had our very own little trees in them. She'd bake dozens of cookie and candy recipes. We had a real assortment of sweets, decadent fudge that she and my dad made together, candycane cookies with crushed real candycanes on top, buckeyes, candy kiss cookies, cut out sugar cookies, spritz, biscotti, you name it. There were stacks of tins in the closet with cookies and candy galore, and she let us eat nearly as much as we wanted. It was glorious! Plus, we knew that Christmas was coming, and even though Santa Claus somehow had the same exact handwriting and wrapping paper as Mom, we knew he'd go way overboard buying us every little thing that we hinted we wanted all year, plus a few things even we didn't think of and Mom would be tickled watching us open every single package on Christmas morning.

As we got mid-way through grade school, my mom started an at-home based business so that she could contribute to the family financially and fulfill her creative ambitions, while still being at home for her children and for her husband. Our house was still immaculately cleaned and even more nicely decorated because her business was in interior design. She still had time to make dinner and make sure we did our homework before she went off "to work" in the evenings. She would leave for a few hours after dinner to go help other women decorate their homes.

It was through this home-based job that we got our first brand new car again, when I was 14. I was so excited to have a new vehicle that was all one color, rust free, and didn't make any loud noises. It smelled good and it had enough seats for everyone, and I could actually have my mom drop me off right in front of the school instead of a block away. I had my own cup holder and heat vent and my own bench seat, all to myself. It was a minivan.

Ninth grade dance was a power struggle between my mother and I. You see, when my mom was in ninth grade, she was pregnant with me. She didn't celebrate the end of freshman year with a formal dance. Instead, she was kicked out of her regular middle school, the same middle school I attended in ninth grade, and was sent to an "alternative school" for wayward children. Back then, they treated pregnant girls like they had a communicable disease. She wasn't allowed back. In fact, her guidance counselor used to make goofy comments about how proud she was of me, in light of my birth story. I used to tell her it was quite nice of her, what with how she treated my mother like a plague. When it came time for me to go to the dance, my mom didn't think it was important and she thought the dresses were too expensive. Dad convinced her to let me go, and I know she was happy, in the end, that I did because those pictures are some of her favorites of me and they are still on display in her house.

I was a stressed out kid. I put a lot of pressure on myself to excel in school. I did well at most things I tried, but I was always worried about my grades. At times, my mom would wonder why I was so stressed out because she'd notice I was grouchy or emotional about homework or projects. One time she came to school without telling me. She went to talk to my guidance counselor about why I might be so stressed. The guidance counselor had no idea, so after my mom left, she called me down for a meeting and asked me some open-ended questions. She told me my mom had been there and was concerned that I was under way too much pressure in school, and that maybe the load was too heavy. I never told my mom, but it meant a lot to me that she noticed that I was struggling with the high standards I'd placed upon myself and she took the time to drive to the school and make an appointment with the counselor to find out what could be done to help me relax more. I had a mom who noticed and cared when something was wrong.

When I went off to college, my mom protested my choice, because it required me to take out loans to attend and, I think, because it was 700 miles away in Washington, D.C. But it was my first choice, my only choice, and once I had something in my mind, I was doing it. My sister told me that my mom used to go sit in my room on my bed and cry after I left. My dad took me to school, the van loaded up to the brim with dormotory items. When my dad left, we had orientation. Then came the loan papers. I hadn't realized exactly how tight my chest would get when I read the promissory note. I also hadn't realized what the check would cover, or, would not cover, rather. Turns out I would only have money for the meal plan, dorm and tuition, and nothing else. I didn't have enough to cover books. I didn't have enough for soap or hairspray or toothpaste. I was beside myself with anxiety and called home bawling the very first day. The school informed me that my parents were responsible for $8,000, per my FAFSA calculations. Ha! That meant I had to find $8,000 after taking out $7,500 in loans, over and above my grants. My mom, instead of saying I told you so, calmed me down and assured me it'd be ok, and took down a list of what I needed and then promptly sent me a check for books and a care package of the items I listed. She also said I might need to get a job, which I did the very next day. She kept sending those packages and $50 checks here and there, all throughout college.

In law school, my mom still sent care packages. I called her to ask whether I should go to the doctor for this or that, how to make homemade noodles like my grandma always made, and whether $29.94 was too much to pay for my first full sized artificial Christmas tree. LOL! Ah, those were the days. My parents drove down for the graduation from law school, all 1,009 miles to New Orleans and my mother surprised the heck out of me. Despite the heat and humidity, the traffic and the slow service at restaurants, she loved the city. She caught the charm of New Orleans instantly. She had been there about half an hour when it hit her that she was in a very cool and historic place. She loved the antique stores, the quaint shops, the live music everywhere, the Spanish moss, the gardens and courtyards, and the friendly people. She even went to Pat O'Briens for a drink. I was blown away because I figured she'd hate it. She still talks about that trip, and she was devastated when Katrina hit and flooded the city beyond recognition.

When I bought my first house, my mom was there tearing out lanolium that had dog crap all over it, stripping and polishing hardwood floors, priming and painting walls, sewing curtains, picking out appliances, turning over flower beds, and even unpacking my boxes, because I was in Montreal studying abroad, and then I had to start right back in class as soon as I returned. I used to secretly resent it that when I would have people over, she'd take them on tours of my house and point out that she did this and that. As I've matured from 25 to just about 33, I realize that had my mom simply allowed me to buy the absolute dump I bought without taking the bull by the horns and putting in hundreds of sweat equity hours on my behalf, I could have never done it without her and I'd still be living in a condemnable dump. My mom is physically stronger than I've ever been. She can dig holes and lift bricks and move furniture and manage to get wallpaper off or rip up flooring that I just can't seem to do on my own. I've tried things, becoming frustrated, saying, "Dad's just going to have to do this. It's too heavy," only to have her take the shovel from me and say, "Here, let me do it." And boy, she gets it done even if she is only 5'1".

My sister and I always joke that the Army ad is for my mom. You know the ad that says, "We do more before 9 a.m. than you do on an average day"? By 9 a.m., my mom has mopped floors, done three loads of laundry, polished the chandeliers, weeded her flower beds, watered the lawn, done the grocery shopping and three other errands, and has sewn a new table cloth to boot. And, her neighbors make fun of her because she's in a cute outfit with complete make-up and jewelry while doing it all. Her house is like Martha Stewart's, only cleaner. There have been people who have actually critcised my mother for how much care she gives to her home, our home, and to making meals and keeping an enviable garden, etc. I've realized that those people are just jealous because even if they were retired at 25 years old, they could not keep up with her or out-do what she does to make our world beautiful.

She may be a task-master, but she's got a heart of gold and she'll give you the shirt off her back if she knows you need it more than she does. She always wants to help people who don't know how to plant a flower, cook a dish, hang a swag, hem pants or get the ugliest wallpaper you've ever seen off their walls. If you give her a bag full of discarded items and tell her that's all you have to decorate your house, she'll make it look better than you could have imagined if you had a $10,000 budget. She can work wonders with paint and few swatches of fabric. She's the queen of mixing antiques. She's got an eye for beauty.

Not only was she always there for us. She was always there for my dad. Some wives are out with girlfriends after work and not home when their husbands get home. Some wives wear sweatpants all day long and don't bother to put on make-up or do their hair. Some wives badmouth their husbands, and complain all day long about them to their friends. Some wives pick up carry-out every night or, even worse, grab something for themselves to eat and don't even think of making a meal for the family, or for a husband who has worked hard all day. Granted, some wives are out of the house 40 or more hours per week too, and they have less time to do things for their spouses.

My mother gets excited when my father comes home. If I'm on the phone with her when he pulls up, she always interrupts me and says, "Oh, I have to go, your dad is home. I'm going to get dinner ready here and talk to him." If you're there with her when he is about to come home, she goes into the bathroom and touches up her make-up, fluffs her hair, puffs on a spray of perfume, and then starts dinner. She's always waiting with a kiss when he gets home. They always eat together. She puts a lot of thought and planning into the meals she makes. I'm sure they're mostly down to a science now. When I was a kid I noticed she did things special for him. "Your dad likes his coffee black." "I make eggs over easy for your dad." "Take a breast or a wing, your dad likes the dark meat." "I made the extra spicy one for your dad." And in the morning, she always makes sure she has coffee and a banana for him, because for whatever reason, he won't go to work without a banana. He loves bananas, I guess.

Some people say that the women who forego careers to be stay-at-home mothers and wives do themselves a disservice because they are unhappy with life. My mother has always seemed to prove this wrong. She takes great pride in her homemaking and she does it with love. Her rewards are not a six figure salary or a pension or a promotion or the corner office or a plaque to hang on the wall three years straight. But I think that she finds her rewards in a 33 year and going strong marriage with her best friend who she still learns things about as the years go by, and two grown daughters who have made her proud with college, graduate school, careers and now her first grandchild who takes up grandma's days. Her newest contribution is taking care of Stella, her first granddaughter, while my sister works.

I think my mom can find rewards in knowing that she raised her kids right and that her kids have done things that she didn't get to do. She can be proud that she is regarded by all who know her for her talents. Her neighbors and friends and family members have come to admire and appreciate her wisdom in all things domestic, and they envy how well her children turned out. We constantly hear from aunts and uncles how they hope their kids turn out as well as Debby's kids did.

I've thought of starting a business that is somewhat Martha Stewart-esque, decorating, cooking, gardening, doing all things domestic and teaching other women to do it. However, every time I think of it, I stop and think that I would be a fraud. I feel like a fraud when I consider a lifestyle and home business because I know that I'm not half as talented, experienced or good at it as my mother is, and I know that I learned every ounce of what I do know from her. What I didn't learn from her, I inherited in talent, and I know she'd run circles around me if she had the same business. We've told her that for years.

Recently, I've thought I should celebrate what I know how to do in the home even if I do feel like a fraud, because in doing so, I'm celebrating the gifts my mother gave me and the knowledge she passed down, many of which have been the best skills and lessons I've had to learn from. Demonstrating my cooking, decorating and gardening skills would only be a tribute to my mom. I wouldn't know a lick of it had she not been home all my life making life beatiful and delicious and sharing it with me. It reminds me of a question a 15 year old girl once asked a preacher while sitting in a hospital bed scared to death, "If God gives you a gift and you reject it, will he be angry with you?"

My mother is a gift, and my sister and my father and I have been blessed in many ways having her in our lives. I try to think of what to give her for her birthday, and I just can't ever come up with anything that is fitting enough. I hope this tribute is a good start.

I love you, Mom. Happy Birthday! Enjoy the last year of your forties, hot stuff. ;)