For Mom, That Was Then; This Is Now
“From private-school mom to toe rings - a 20-year odyssey.” Or, better yet: “How ever did I get here from there?”
The here is a funky shop in a crowded loft above a grocery store in a tiny beach community on the Oregon coast. I’m sprawled on the floor fingering an enchanting collection of beaded earrings while my old friend Gail tries on toe rings.
Strange behavior for a couple of retired moms?
Maybe. But there’s no one around to point an accusing finger and remind us that between the two of us, we’ve lived 114 years and raised three children. Right now, as the saying goes, we’re just “doing our thing.”
“Look at these,” I say, holding up a pair of 6-inch beauties to my ear lobe. “What do you think? Are they me?”
“They’re as much you as this turquoise toe ring is me,” Gail giggles. “Let’s go to the Birkenstock store next, OK?”
Sounds good to me. I’ve never owned any of those “lookin’ bad but feelin’ great” shoes, and I feel a pair coming on. Gail’s boys already have warned her about becoming a “tree hugger in Birkenstocks.”
Gail kicks off her left sandal and slips a silver band onto her third toe. The right toes already are full. “Too much?” she asks as she studies the sunburned feet stretched out in front of her.
“Heck no,” I encourage - but I can’t resist adding, “So where do we rent the barge to float you down the Nile?”
We crack up. Two old friends flopped down in the midst of an ill-assorted and highly unlikely collection of “girl stuff,” acting as if we barely have good sense - and loving every minute of it.
It was in the midst of this middle-aged dementia that two young women, a pair of fresh-faced sprites, all shiny and smug in their newness, wander up the stairs and begin eyeing us uncomfortably as we giggle and primp and preen.
Gail and I are having too much fun to worry about what’s on their baby-minds. We’ve been there.
“Good grief!” they’re thinking as they listen to our irreverent exchanges. “Those crazy broads could be our mothers!”
Wrong, dears. We could be your grandmothers, but you’d have to ditch the attitudes. Our real kids not only approve of our aberrant actions, but they also even have been known to encourage them.
But, of course, our kids met us under entirely different circumstances. They remember us as mommies - diligent care givers who brought food and hugs, who sang lullabies and soothed tummy aches.
They remember us as moms who baked countless cookies and made mashed potatoes just the way they liked them. They remember we were the first in the neighborhood who had learned to make pizza so they could invent original toppings, even though the peanut butter/ketchup combination never did catch on.
Our boys - Gail’s two and my one - remember us as the station-wagon women who hauled kids to and from their school on a west Georgia hill called Oak Mountain. They remember Gail as the star of “Kite Day” and me as the mom who flunked “Pumpkin Pie Day.”
They remember the picnics and the lazy days of inner-tubing down the river that rambled past the house. They remember laid-back Sunday afternoons at the Silver Screen Theatre watching Bergman and Bogart asking Sam to “play it again.”
They remember us as the ogres who wouldn’t allow go-karts and dirt bikes and also as the determined cultural arbiters who dragged them to plays and symphonies.
We were there to help them dress for the prom: “Yuck - this tie is strangling me!” or “Suspenders are for grandfathers!” We were there to help them choose flowers for their lovely Marias and Melissas.
We were there to straighten their mortarboards and tassels as they left their college days behind and to fret with them over their first job interviews.
But now, that’s done. Now, we’re on our own and up to our ear lobes in here. We’re getting on with it.
And our advice to the dewy newcomers?
Pay your dues, luvs, and try not to take it all too seriously.
xxxx