There I was, sitting at the kitchen table chocolate milk in hand, struggling to find a suitable topic for yesterday's blog when something suddenly broke. Chill out, this wasn't a figurative breaking like so many of my posts have been (a la "broken dreams," "broken habits," and the oh-so-sexy "broken preconceived notions"), this time something actually smashed and went to pieces. Silence shattered by a bang bounced into a crash followed by the sound of sharp shards tinkling all over the countertop and tile floor. A glass had slipped out of my mother's hand on the journey from dishwasher to cupboard. She had no idea how it happened.
I realize a lot of people say this about their mothers, but my mother is the most strongest person I know. Brooklyn born, 3rd of seven children and six daughters (my poor Uncle Paulie, the only boy in a sea of sisters), my Ma is 100% I-talian with a kick-ass red sauce recipe and the best lasagna in five states... no, fuck it, the world. Growing up, if any of her kids acted fresh, we'd get our spankings from the wooden spoon of justice that eventually split down the middle right over my brother Patrick's ass. With a good friend she can polish off a bottle of cabernet in twenty minutes, with her sisters she can cater a party of 300 without breaking a sweat, and all by herself nobody, nobody, nobody will ever top my mama's meatballs.
Like most Italian broads with a passion for food, family, and the fun that comes with them, my mother was born to be a mom. For six kids and thirty-six years she cooked, she cleaned, she chased for fun, she chased for punishment, she kept my father's temper in check, she dragged her children by the ear out of the principle's office, she dragged her children by the ear into church, she put all six of her children through college, and she did it working forty to fifty-hour weeks, with a smile on her face and an unshakable sense of humor. My mother deserves her own fucking holiday.
If only life were fair.
In place of medals and songs, my mom has has sore feet, crappy vision, and a neck pain that smarts like a sonofabitch. She's got mountains of debt and her children's problems, parent-loans from college tuitions and utility bills that only go up. She has a husband who's worried he'll be too old to enjoy retirement when/if it comes and three children who just moved back home because we're all having trouble finding our own two feet. My mom is fifty-six years old and yet by some cruel twist of circumstance she's supporting a guinea pig, a cat, two dogs, three grand children, a 41-year old daughter who decided to change careers again, a 25-year old daughter who still works the same job she did in high school, and a 23-year old son who's writing this blog. This kind of absolute bullshit would make most women sprout snake hair and spit fire, but not my mom. She makes us all dinner every single night and never leaves the house without saying, "I love you."
I watch my honest, hard-working, loyal, patient, generous, selfless, devoted, loving parents struggling everyday and it kills me to know that I can't offer them relief right now. Instead, I am part of their burden and the guilt makes it really difficult to speak sometimes. Less than a year out of college and already I feel like the twenty-three year old, living-at-home, saving-money, planning-to-move-to-New-York-City-so-I-can-start-my-adult-life-and-chase-my-dreams drain on my poor mother. This is one of those junctions in life where people looking ahead need to not forget where they come from.
My parents haven't turned their backs on me and they never will. They put me on their shoulders even when they're on their knees and they help, and they help, and they help. That's a lot to ask of somebody, even of family, but they never made me ask. That's what parents do.
A glass fell tonight for no reason at all and shattered on the kitchen floor. My mom didn't know what happened and I worry that this is a sign of the years finally catching up to her. If this is her health slipping, if this is some precursor to a stroke or a heart attack or a fall, if my mom is losing her epic, timeless, superhuman strength that I have come to rely on then we don't have the luxury of time anymore. Maybe it was nothing, but maybe not, and I need to get my shit together, and I need to pull my weight, and I need to start paying back the massive debt I owe my parents before it's too late. And my sister's better get their goddamn acts together, too.
There's six kids in this family, and thought they'll never ask for it, a debt to your parents is a debt that must be paid. If we can't collectively support them in timely manner so that they can enjoy their retirement, then we won't deserve their forgiveness.
And I'd certainly never forgive myself.
Day 26. TFR. SYT.
Like most Italian broads with a passion for food, family, and the fun that comes with them, my mother was born to be a mom. For six kids and thirty-six years she cooked, she cleaned, she chased for fun, she chased for punishment, she kept my father's temper in check, she dragged her children by the ear out of the principle's office, she dragged her children by the ear into church, she put all six of her children through college, and she did it working forty to fifty-hour weeks, with a smile on her face and an unshakable sense of humor. My mother deserves her own fucking holiday.
If only life were fair.
In place of medals and songs, my mom has has sore feet, crappy vision, and a neck pain that smarts like a sonofabitch. She's got mountains of debt and her children's problems, parent-loans from college tuitions and utility bills that only go up. She has a husband who's worried he'll be too old to enjoy retirement when/if it comes and three children who just moved back home because we're all having trouble finding our own two feet. My mom is fifty-six years old and yet by some cruel twist of circumstance she's supporting a guinea pig, a cat, two dogs, three grand children, a 41-year old daughter who decided to change careers again, a 25-year old daughter who still works the same job she did in high school, and a 23-year old son who's writing this blog. This kind of absolute bullshit would make most women sprout snake hair and spit fire, but not my mom. She makes us all dinner every single night and never leaves the house without saying, "I love you."
I watch my honest, hard-working, loyal, patient, generous, selfless, devoted, loving parents struggling everyday and it kills me to know that I can't offer them relief right now. Instead, I am part of their burden and the guilt makes it really difficult to speak sometimes. Less than a year out of college and already I feel like the twenty-three year old, living-at-home, saving-money, planning-to-move-to-New-York-City-so-I-can-start-my-adult-life-and-chase-my-dreams drain on my poor mother. This is one of those junctions in life where people looking ahead need to not forget where they come from.
My parents haven't turned their backs on me and they never will. They put me on their shoulders even when they're on their knees and they help, and they help, and they help. That's a lot to ask of somebody, even of family, but they never made me ask. That's what parents do.
A glass fell tonight for no reason at all and shattered on the kitchen floor. My mom didn't know what happened and I worry that this is a sign of the years finally catching up to her. If this is her health slipping, if this is some precursor to a stroke or a heart attack or a fall, if my mom is losing her epic, timeless, superhuman strength that I have come to rely on then we don't have the luxury of time anymore. Maybe it was nothing, but maybe not, and I need to get my shit together, and I need to pull my weight, and I need to start paying back the massive debt I owe my parents before it's too late. And my sister's better get their goddamn acts together, too.
There's six kids in this family, and thought they'll never ask for it, a debt to your parents is a debt that must be paid. If we can't collectively support them in timely manner so that they can enjoy their retirement, then we won't deserve their forgiveness.
And I'd certainly never forgive myself.
Day 26. TFR. SYT.
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