Mermaids and the Warrior: Memories of My Mother

I’ve always lived two blocks from where I grew up. Looking back, I know this was a heartfelt decision, so I could remain connected to how I was raised. 

This year, as Mother’s Day arrives, I am especially aware of my mother’s practical and often brilliant examples of how to live. 

A warrior emerges

When my sister and I were young, Mama alternated buying each of us a new coat every other year. When it was my turn, I knew the coat would be too big – but that it would last.

One day, I was at the local park with my mom. I was wearing my oversized coat, trying to ignore the teasing from a few kids dominating the swing set. When I jumped on the merry-go-round with the older kids, they didn’t want me to join. I got one leg over the bar when the kids started pushing the ride faster and faster. My solution was to hop on one leg or get thrown to the ground and stomped on by the mean girls. 

I panicked. 

Just when I thought I was losing my grip, the merry-go-round came to an abrupt halt. I turned around and found my mama grasping the bars with both hands, dragging her body across the rough gravel, using all her strength to stop the momentum so I could get off safely. Her knees were bloodied and I remember her dignified anger, the way she stared down those mean girls. I saw her as a warrior woman that day, and this is how she taught me to be one too.

Remembering rituals

Other memories of my mother are deeply rooted in me as well.

On long summer days, Mom chased us off her freshly mopped floors and into carefree play. My sister Nancy and I spent much of our time in a make-believe world that our parents could not fathom. We were carried off by knights in shining armor and starred in stories about Ken and Barbie.

At dinnertime, Dad stood on the porch and whistled, which meant it was time to come home. Mom rustled up a salad with fixings from the garden, while Dad prepped the steaks with seasonings that were always too spicy for my mother. 

Protecting feelings

My family ate dinner at the antique table that my father surprised Mom with one Christmas. His gift included six intricately carved chairs and a matching hutch. Mom didn’t like the style, but she loved the gesture and never said a word to Dad. My sister and I internalized our mother’s penchant for protecting the hearts of those she loved. 

On hot nights after dinner, Mom and Dad enjoyed a glass of wine in the backyard while my sister and I swam in the kidney-shaped pool. It seemed that every couple of minutes Mom said, “Dick, have the girls been under the water too long?” Dad would laugh, “No, Ann, they’re mermaids.” 

Memories of those languid evenings remain with me. At bedtime, Mom left a glass of cold water on my nightstand and a kiss on my forehead, gathering the dirty clothes from the floor before she left the room. 

A missed call

As I grew up and went away to college, I sometimes took Mama for granted. I assumed she would always be around, and I regret that mistake.

One year, I was so preoccupied with college finals that I forgot to call mom on Mother’s Day.

I phoned the next day; Dad answered the phone. I said,

“Hi Dad, is Mom around?”

“Yes, she’s right over there crying in the corner, let me see if she can talk.”

My mother was never one for dramatics, and I heard her scolding Dad in the background: 

“Richard, give me the phone–” she said. Then, “–Hi honey, how’s it going?”

“Mom, I forgot to call you yesterday. The day got away from me, and I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter (although it did). I know you’re busy–” she said “–tell me what’s going on.” 

Mom always put our feelings first, rarely sharing the things that caused her pain or heartache.

At the threshold

A few days ago, I found myself driving past the old house on the way to my sister’s. That morning, Nancy and I reminisced about the Mother’s Day cassette tape we’d made one year: a mix of our favorite stories about Mom and her favorite songs. We remembered how, later that day, Dad found her in the car – which was the only place to play a cassette – listening intently, and crying intermittently. 

We found that tape in her dresser drawer after Mom died. 

I read somewhere that our lives are shaped not only by what we choose to let go of, but also by what we hang on to. And so, as I stand on the threshold of another Mother’s Day, I’m hanging onto the memories of my warrior Mama.