Mother's Day

[Quick disclaimer: I wrote this post a couple of weeks ago, when it was ACTUALLY Mother's Day, but had to postpone posting it until I could dig through the family photo vault.  While I'm not a particularly perfect child, I'm not so bad as to wish my mother a happy Mother's Day weeks after the fact.]

In the spirit of mother’s day, I was reflecting on my own nurturing mother and my years spent in her care.  And admittedly I’m still there—in her care—no matter how much I try to pretend that being a bearded and bald adult somehow puts me beyond the need for her loving affection, but that’s probably a whole separate blog post and/or visit to the psychiatrist.

Mom had to play a lot of roles over the years—nurse, teacher, principal, cop, WWF referee, chauffeur, maid, chef—all of which she executed expertly, but none more so than her role as a mother.  When my youngest sibling finally left for college two years ago, it marked the first time in thirty-six years that my parents weren’t actively raising any kids.  THIRTY-SIX YEARS.  Of course there is now a small army of grand kids to dote on, but I think they’re happy to embrace the new role.

Out of the many talents Mom exhibited while transitioning between her various roles and responsibilities, it became apparent that bowling was a particular strength of hers.  I remember being lucky enough to tag along for a few of those smoke-filled evenings at the bowling alley, and being awestruck by my mother’s smooth skill and proficient aim.  In between her turns, I mostly contemplated the many risks of the emphysema I assumed would strike me at any moment.  (For the record, Mom didn’t smoke—at least not while I was looking—but that didn’t stop every other person in the alley from chain smoking.)   

A couple of years ago, our family thought it would really be “nice” to get everyone together and go bowling for mother’s day.  And so that what’s we did.  And now I am able to tell you from firsthand experience that there are few things in life—possibly there are none—more demoralizing than losing to your own mother in an athletic event, albeit bowling.  She hadn’t touched a bowling ball in over 3 years, and she successively bowled 128, 148, and 188 in three straight games, besting me in each one.  She’s basically a less vulgar, more graceful version of John Turturro’s character from The Big Lebowski: The Jesus.

Apparently everyone in Canada, where my mother grew up, does Duck Pin Bowling, which uses smaller pins and balls than conventional bowling here in the US.  Mom once explained to me that when she “moved to the States, bowling here was so much easier!”  Mom is also apparently supremely proficient in rubbing salt in wounds (but in a really nice way).

I’m tempted to draw some heavy-handed comparisons to bowling as a metaphor for life, to comment on my mother’s successes and shortcomings as a parent (mostly successes).  And they would be something about how even when you think you’ve done everything right, the pins necessarily don’t fall like you want… or to the contrary, that sometimes a ball destined for the gutter can make a late change of direction and get everything right.  But I won’t subject you, the reader, to that level of cheesiness.  I’ll instead simply admit that my mom is badass at bowling.

So while I continue my internet search for the right cocktail of performance enhancing drugs for next year’s Mother’s Day Bowling Royale, Mom remains the best bowler in the family, and the best mom I could’ve asked for.

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.  Love you lots.  Your card is in the mail (seriously).

Mom cleaning up at the Shop (with a smile, as always).

Mom introducing me to cake on my 1st birthday!