The household I grew up in was an advertisement for the military American Dream. Imagine that woodland camo clad GI reaching for a slice of what every American thought they could have in Reagan's 80s. But in our family, the word 'supplemental' became 'necessary'. My mom worked. My mom worked hard. Military wives can be incredibly versatile. Incredibly tenacious. She worked her 4-5 hrs at the post exchange or cut hair at the salon and then came home and played the role of mother and wife. She did the laundry. She mended the clothing. She packed the lunches. She cooked the dinners. My sisters and I cleaned and complained the entire time. We didn't understand adult life. We didn't understand Mom Life. I suppose my sisters had a head start in the domestic ways. Playing with the dollhouse, playing tea, playing shopping. Playing guns was as domestic as it got for me unless I was cutting the grass.
Pretty often my dad was sent out into the field to play GI Joe. Or he had to the spend the weekends on CQ making sure the privates were in the bunks at the end of the night. On those nights my mother was probably either relieved or burdened. One less person out of the house, I guess. We weren't terrible children. Same as the rest of the bratty populace I suppose. Bickering, fickle little shits. But on some points you might call us a tiny bit pampered. As long as we completed our tasks my mom wouldn't treat us like Miss Hannigan. Sometimes she'd treat us to pizza or ice cream or whatever idea she came up with to get us to stop talking.
Imagine my surprise when we heard the stories about my mom when she was growing up. My uncles told stories of Dena the Bad Ass Tomboy helping the unfortunate neighborhood boys with gaining weight by fattening their bottom lips. And the embarrassment of one father that confronted my grandfather only to be shown the skinned-knee terror that was responsible. My mother. Of course, growing up with 4 boys in the house required some thick skin. I sat and listened to these stories in awe and a little embarrassed myself. I'm pretty sure my mom would have kicked my ass.
Later on, she helped shape my musical tastes. While my dad sang and danced to Tejano, my mom cranked the Pink Floyd, Moody Blues, Toto and Duran Duran while Spring Cleaning. I eventually got into her vinyl collection and found Cheech and Chong's Wedding Album and Creedence Clearwater Revival's Greatest Hits. I can't listen to anything by Neil Young without thinking of her. She once bought me the Harvest Moon album on CD and I dismissed it for other questionable tunes but eventually came back to it.
My mom once admitted to me that she had smoked marijuana (surprise, surprise) when she was younger and my jaw dropped. I had just been to a DARE assembly and my malleable mind was just starting to solidify on that drugs were bad news until she told me about the weed. That one little confession made me question every damned thing that any adult told me. Opinions weren't just limited to which flavor of Kool-Aid was best anymore. My tiny mind tried to grasp the idea that adult opinions were usually rooted in motive.
She taught me lessons without pointing out the obvious. She trusted me to make the right decision in every situation. There were a few instances where I digressed from the correct path and I risked a fat lip every time I tested my mom's trust.
In 1995, after I left home for the Air Force, I was pretty sure I knew everything that I needed to know in the world. That pretty much changed when I arrived at tech school in Texas with nary an idea about how to do my laundry. It had never crossed my mind before. The only time I had to do anything to laundry was fold it and put it away. At this point in my career, I was only allowed to wear issued clothing. BDUs and PT gear. My clean civilian clothes had to wait until I got "permission" to wear them. I panicked. While my BDUs were dry cleaned, my underwear needed a regular ol' washing. I couldn't ask anyone how to wash laundry. I bought some detergent, softener and dryer sheets. I got them back to the laundry room and read the directions. None of it made any sense. I feared if I put too much detergent in the washer, it would create a suds monster like in Mr. Mom or whatever newer movie that's used that gag. I wasn't sure when to add the softener or even where to put it. I didn't even know how long to set the dryer for. What if my tighty whities caught fire? So I made a collect call home. No one answered. Shit. I waited 15 minutes and called again. My mom answered. She sounded surprised that I called but she was even more surprised about what the call was for. She told me how much soap to add and that if I had dryer sheets then I wouldn't need softener. I wrote it all down and memorized it later so I wouldn't have to hide notes while doing my laundry like I was cheating on a test. Somehow this one lesson slipped through the cracks. I later realized that the lessons will never end. I think when it comes to raising children you have to make sure every lesson is taught. Or at least touched on. The lessons. Not the children.
Today is my mom's 61st birthday. I meant to write this last year. Maybe one of these days she'll teach me how to beat procrastination. Happy Birthday Mom!
Later on, she helped shape my musical tastes. While my dad sang and danced to Tejano, my mom cranked the Pink Floyd, Moody Blues, Toto and Duran Duran while Spring Cleaning. I eventually got into her vinyl collection and found Cheech and Chong's Wedding Album and Creedence Clearwater Revival's Greatest Hits. I can't listen to anything by Neil Young without thinking of her. She once bought me the Harvest Moon album on CD and I dismissed it for other questionable tunes but eventually came back to it.
My mom once admitted to me that she had smoked marijuana (surprise, surprise) when she was younger and my jaw dropped. I had just been to a DARE assembly and my malleable mind was just starting to solidify on that drugs were bad news until she told me about the weed. That one little confession made me question every damned thing that any adult told me. Opinions weren't just limited to which flavor of Kool-Aid was best anymore. My tiny mind tried to grasp the idea that adult opinions were usually rooted in motive.
She taught me lessons without pointing out the obvious. She trusted me to make the right decision in every situation. There were a few instances where I digressed from the correct path and I risked a fat lip every time I tested my mom's trust.
In 1995, after I left home for the Air Force, I was pretty sure I knew everything that I needed to know in the world. That pretty much changed when I arrived at tech school in Texas with nary an idea about how to do my laundry. It had never crossed my mind before. The only time I had to do anything to laundry was fold it and put it away. At this point in my career, I was only allowed to wear issued clothing. BDUs and PT gear. My clean civilian clothes had to wait until I got "permission" to wear them. I panicked. While my BDUs were dry cleaned, my underwear needed a regular ol' washing. I couldn't ask anyone how to wash laundry. I bought some detergent, softener and dryer sheets. I got them back to the laundry room and read the directions. None of it made any sense. I feared if I put too much detergent in the washer, it would create a suds monster like in Mr. Mom or whatever newer movie that's used that gag. I wasn't sure when to add the softener or even where to put it. I didn't even know how long to set the dryer for. What if my tighty whities caught fire? So I made a collect call home. No one answered. Shit. I waited 15 minutes and called again. My mom answered. She sounded surprised that I called but she was even more surprised about what the call was for. She told me how much soap to add and that if I had dryer sheets then I wouldn't need softener. I wrote it all down and memorized it later so I wouldn't have to hide notes while doing my laundry like I was cheating on a test. Somehow this one lesson slipped through the cracks. I later realized that the lessons will never end. I think when it comes to raising children you have to make sure every lesson is taught. Or at least touched on. The lessons. Not the children.
Today is my mom's 61st birthday. I meant to write this last year. Maybe one of these days she'll teach me how to beat procrastination. Happy Birthday Mom!
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