Mother's Day 2017

(That's me with the big hat, white purse, and huge smile. Not much has changed.)

When I was little, say five years old, I took to dressing like an adult. Or my version of what an adult would dress like. I was eager to move to New York and live in an apartment where I would paint my nails a classic red, banter wittily over luxurious dinners, and star in Broadway plays where I would receive nothing but rave reviews and standing ovations.

I began carrying a pair of white gloves and a cream colored clutch purse. Inside the purse were loose keys I found in a kitchen drawer that I would use to fake open my bedroom/apartment door, and crayons that I would smoke while sitting on my toy box, gazing out over the imaginary Manhattan skyline.

I would wear strands of plastic pearls and large hats, my favorite knee-high boots that had a small but thrilling heel, and layers of cherry chapstick that in my mind was a deep crimson. I would reapply this constantly between drags of my crayon.

I did this daily and with all of my heart. And it never even occurred to me that this might be seen as silly. Or weird. Something to make fun of.

And that was entirely because of my amazing Mother.

Never once did she laugh or roll her eyes or use a condescending tone. Quite the opposite. She would knock on my apartment door playing the role of “neighbor”, asking if I was interested in a snack, which I usually was. We’d head down to the closest diner which, as luck would have it, was located in our kitchen. She took me shopping for new looks at vintage stores. She offered up her old purses and perfume. She not only encouraged my imagination, she applauded it.

I began asking friends over after kindergarten and they would be required to pick an outfit from my toy box and dress as adults as well. Everyone was game. My cousin Clay was the only boy allowed but he kept it cool by dressing as a cowboy which went over big with the girls.

But, as often happens to weird little kids, time marched on and some of my friends began resisting my fun. They were now six and seven and they wanted to wear their own clothes and jump rope, not write short fiction and pretend to submit it to small publications.

 (Side note: My Mom collected all of my writing and printed copies of my “book” which I proudly titled, Mousetracks. Inside you will find selected stories such as, “The Hippy Who Lit A Match” and “The Very Scary Thing”.)

Soon my friends no longer accepted my invitations. And they weren’t extending any themselves. It was a hard lesson for a six year old and one I didn’t fully get at the time. I just knew that I was suddenly considered odd and no one wanted to play with me.

I stopped carrying my purse and gave up crayons cold turkey. My Mom immediately noticed. She asked if I wanted to go to Goodwill to shop for an evening gown. Of course I wanted to, but I declined.

I tucked my soft gloves and colorful hats away inside my toy box.

I lived in Seattle, not Manhattan. My pearls were as imaginary as my lipstick. I was six and friendless and miserable.

I didn’t understand that people would abandon you if you didn’t match their version of the world. That being different, to some, meant being bad.

And the reason these concepts were so foreign to me was because my Mom was so proud of who I was. Of every single thing about me. There was nothing strange about me in her eyes. Her love was pure and true and relentless.

One night, when I was feeling particularly lonely, she knocked on my apartment door and asked to come in. We sat side by side on my toy box. The sun was setting and summer was coming on.
“What do you see when you look out your window?” she asked me. “The backyard. The McNeil’s roof. Dad’s old surfboard by the barbeque,” I said.

Then she asked me this, “What do you want to see?”

It took me a moment before I offered up shyly, “New York.”

 “Tell me about it,” my mother said. “What’s out there?”

I told her everything. My dreams, my hopes, my nail color choices. She knew most of this already, of course, but it felt good to hop back into who I really was. To feel comfort in the truth of myself. And the comfort of my Mom’s earnest desire for me to go after my dreams, no matter what.

That night we had dinner at our favorite diner in the kitchen. We both wore strands of pearls and large hats.

And that is my Mom. All of my life she has not only encouraged my adventures, but demanded that I run toward them, heart first.

And she makes it all possible with the constancy of her powerful love in a world that can so easily misunderstand you. She is my person to call in the middle of the night who will listen for hours. She is the vault of my deepest secrets. She is the roaring laugh when I need it most. And the hand to hold tight when I feel lonesome or lost.

She is the friendly neighbor sitting at a diner who celebrates a crayon smoking five year old and lets her know that everything is going to be alright. Better than alright. Everything is going to be magnificent.