MATERNAL BLISS Happiness is when you want to kill your mother because she is thrilled beyond the beyond that you have brought her to shop at The Dollar Tree in Fullerton. You know, the one behind the Pollo Loco and next to the Bed, Bath & Beyond. She can’t control herself, the loud gasp of joy and the ‘aw’ at seeing (and buying) the Santa Claus head coffee mug. She laughs and blurts out loud to me in the next aisle, “Your brother is going to love this!” The raucous laughing at reindeer socks and the lament, “Oh, I wish we still had little kids in the family it’s all dogs now, let’s look for dog socks!” Still, she must have them. And don’t get me started on all the colored pens, her true hoarder’s obsession - ballpoint pens - she wants them in every color. And her confirmation, “Did you know that everything in here is one dollar? Isn’t that smart?” Hey eyes lit like a kid in a candy store or a cocaine addict, both look the same actually. To be fair, we had a purpose for coming to The Dollar Tree. My sister sent us on a mission to buy ‘useful’ product to put in decorated shoeboxes that we will send to needy children somewhere through some Christmas ministry. My mother loves the idea and so I am all in. But once we hit The Dollar Tree, the children have been quickly forgotten. I keep reminding my mom that it’s not about us, but ‘the children’, still, the garland, the spirit of the season, even the chocolate covered cherries, has engulfed her. We were doing pretty well, but then I looked over and she was loading little plastic champagne cups into her basket. The logic eluded me, “These are fake champagne glasses and since we drink fake liquor (Martinelli’s apple juice) we have the cups to go with it.” We have basically reversed roles and I have become the mom of my youth. In minutes we are doing an evaluation of the basket and putting back lots of items on the wrong shelves. I even use one of her old lines in my defense, “Are you putting together a Broadway show? You don’t need all this stuff.” And she even uses one of my old retorts, “A Broadway show would be better than my rotten life…” Did she really just use my sixth grade line? She is doing pretty well. I mean ‘we’ are doing pretty well. How long has it been since my dad has been gone? There are moments, of course. Funny memories that turn into solemn moments that end with, “…yes, dad…” but it gets better. I just dropped her off at work. She still works answering and losing most of the calls at the family business. She was up, dressed and ready to go at 7AM. Jolted awake by her hard of hearing volume setting for the KTLA Channel 5 Morning News Report on the television. She is laughing, “Oh that Mark Kriski…” I had a fitful night of sleep on her new couch. I keep waking up when she does, and she does a lot. She’ll get up and go through drawers, pulling out old letters and reading them, or turn on her little LED camping light and do a crossword, each one about a fifteen minute interval and back to sleep. At one point I wake up startled to see her sitting up and eating a banana. “Where did you get that?” She looks over and says, “From the kitchen, what do you think? Go to sleep.” I turn over and softly say, “Stay in bed and save that for morning.” I close my eyes and hear her seventh grade response, “Oh to not have had children. I thought of poisoning all of you once and burying you out in the backyard and planting little cute flowers over each and every one of you, but I would have gone to Ida Lupino prison and I love this house too much…” “Ssh!” I mutter as I go off to unforgiving sleep. I am at Polly’s Pies, the coffee/pie shop of the youth I never had. It’s in the strip mall of dead business dreams off Chapman. All that is left is a check cashing place and poor Polly. There is a party next to me. Composed of three really old women, two in walkers and a man who looks like he is in his sixties. Niceties aside, orders made, coffee poured, the man speaks up, “Okay, I want to talk about this whole Sam’s Club thing.” The woman across from him, who is revealed to be his mother, says, “Oh Jim, let it be. Seriously, just let it be!” “I just can’t”, he says, red faced and agitated. She comes back with as much force “I go to bingo on Monday, not for me but for grandma. You want to tell Grandma no bingo because you need a damn sale on burger meat? Tuesday is volunteering and I’ve been doing that since before you were born, so that wins. Wednesday is church. Thursday is my pills and stuff and Friday is baking for church, you want me to go there with no pie? You will have to wait until the weekend and that’s that!” He is furious and he takes off his glasses to wipe them if for nothing else than to get control of him self. “I’m disabled.” He says. “Oh Jim” she returns the volley “A fall in the driveway is no disability, don’t insult the Veterans.” Oh oh, she went too far, because Jim raises his foot with an agility that would make many an insurance adjuster suspicious, “That’s called A Boot and I can not work.” “You mean you can’t stand at a machine and make steel holes or whatever the heck you do because you have a boot?” she giggles, but the two old ladies at her side keep their heads down and sip their coffees nervously. The food comes, thank goodness and without fail, they all hold hands and pray out loud. The aggressive mother leads the prayer, of course. “Dear Lord, thank you for this food and this fellowship, in your name.” They all say, “Amen” and begin to eat. Before Jim can speak, mom begins, “No more Sam’s Club talk, the burger meat will be there, I promise, there is no shortage on cows.” “What about my having to work on Thanksgiving? You think that’s fair?” Poor Jim is clearly fishing for some hard won success, but mom is not going to give it. “Jimmy, my Jimmy, you are one big baby, I am sorry to say it. If you don’t like it, quit, but I suspect you do because you are going to get double pay. And if we don’t see you at Thanksgiving, which we will because we won’t start eating anytime before you get out of work and I doubt you will have ‘The Boot’ off before then, so you will still be ‘dis-abled’ and this is an argument that you are not going to win.” He interrupts “IT’S NOT A COMPETITION, MOM!” Silence. I look over and so does the old golfer in the corner. No one talks after that. I am writing as fast as I can and wishing there was a button on this - scene, I mean - situation, I mean - this real life, but just like real life, all is unresolved. I love my mom. Last week, I was suffering a bit of my own exhaustion and I took her to Stats in Pasadena to get us ready for some holiday cheer. The little village displays were all up in the darkened room with the neon light. The rows and rows of garlands, bows and fake snow, by the time we reached the tree displays, we were fully in the spirit. My mom who hates pictures stood in front of a tree display with a cartoon Santa and said “Hurry, take a picture, can you see Santa?” refusing to look away from him. “Yes” I said, “Just look at the camera.” “Oh shut up and take the pinche picture, que fregado!” You know what? I love her. I don’t think she would battle me on Sam’s Club or challenge me on disability issues, she’s got spotty memory, but even still, I would still take her, if for the feisty joy and lack of sleep she gives me. Just like a good mother would.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Nov 2014 19:12:00 +0000
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