By Her Hands

A Tribute for Mother’s Day 

My mother lives far away, so our visits are scarce.  They coincide with special events and my two kids, her only grandchildren thus far.  Communions, recitals, a recent graduation…a lot of living gets squeezed into five days and so she packs her Advil, her stamina, and what my friend refers to as, her Love Language.  

Many mothers speak it. 

 

When mom visits, she quietly shifts into red alert status and becomes the most prized asset on the team.  She sees our busy life, where order and cleanliness have taken a back seat to the growing of a family.  But she knows how to reach into the layers to degrease the gummed-up gears of our household.  She scrubs windows and mends clothes which have been in time-out.  She scours the sink and stove, wiping months of hard living from my house.

 

She knows how to love me. 

 

I feel no shame and she does not judge.  There is no condescending exhale, “Well, you two can’t seem to manage your home, so let ME do it.”  This Warden of Order hovers above our shameful corners and uses her skills to rescue us with her pure Love Language.  And the sweetest moments are when she makes me a fried egg, like no one on this earth can make. Every single morning of her visit, an egg. 

 

When we talk about things that catch my fancy (a tea flavor, a scarf color), I never see that she goes to her purse and jots it down on a spare envelope.  She will mine the universe when she gets home and that item will show up for my birthday eight months later. My mom is such a good observer, that she even had a tube of live ants shipped to our house…for an ant farm, because my daughter mentioned it briefly. 

 

She uses toothpicks for the finer surgery needed to scrape grime from hundreds of feet of invisible grooves in our kitchen. 

 

"Toothpicks are SO useful when you keep them in your purse," she said.  "For your teeth. And for cars."

Me: "Cars?"

She: "For sticking in people's keyholes when they park too close to you."

I blink, not believing what I just heard.

She: "Not that I've done that."

My own mother. My own flesh and blood. I became impressed.  

On one visit, mom handed me the mixing spoons so I could lick off the frosting. I was a summer’s child all over again, and then came gratefulness.  At 49 years old, I did not take it lightly that she was there to hand those spoons to me. 

 

Her most recent visit was during our son's high school graduation---an 18-hour day filled with joy and emotion.  But the next morning, the sight of my mom frying my egg just made my eyes well up.  There is something so treasured about one's parents being there to witness your own crowning moment of graduating your child.  On every level, I know this was no small thing either.
 

And when we part, we both feel the sting in our eyes and our hearts.  Sometimes, I don’t think she can bear having to leave her grandkids, and my throat catches when I see her face.  After one of our visits, she found sequins on her floor, which had popped off my daughter’s leggings like fleas from a dog. Then, this email came from mom, "Hi Honey.....I picked up the sequins with scotch tape and stuck them to her picture on my bathroom mirror." Oh, the precious things one does to soothe the ache of a departure. She even nailed Grandma Love Language.

I feel the ache too, when she leaves my home.  Her absence is a presence.  For several days, my home still has the imprint of her Windex circles; the way she placed the forks in the drawer after emptying the washer for the eighth time.  I see the small rug at a different angle after she shook it out; the perfection of clean salt and pepper shakers standing proudly on our counter, their bald heads shining.

She did that.  

 

She took her aching back, sore feet and chapped hands back on the plane with her, and left behind cleanliness and order.  Even though she allows me to pamper her (only a little) during her visits, she insists on leaving these remnants of her love. 

 

I reciprocate in my own way, but my Love Language cannot touch Mom’s Love Language. 

When she visits, unseen burdens are lifted, and my home gets nourished and loved....by her hands. 

The Deep End: Intermission

(Just a Commercial Break.)

You can click on each photo to get a better view.

 

 

I have peace. 

Yes, every inch has been filled with the things I love.  Finally, for the first time in my adult life, I have a respectable place where I can download all the things in my head.  And manage our lives. 

And write.

 

Mom Caves, unite.

 

 

Way Before:  

 

 

 

Then came the studs.

 

Then came the Arctic Circle. 

 

 

Wide open space, just waiting to be filled up.   

Then, the whole enchilada.

 

The reading nook.  My daughter breached the perimeter already and has found a place to hide her diaries.

And no one puts Baby in the corner, unless Baby's name is Sheri.

Part 4 of 4...this week.