Mothers: A Composite

She was on the Kindertransport, evacuated from Pearl Harbor, segregated in Alabama, rescued from Romania

She was orphaned at five and loves to be called “Mother”

She lost a breast, a kidney, a hip, a husband; she wakes every day feeling optimistic

She allows her grandchildren to eat chocolate pudding for breakfast

She curses in Yiddish and German, and a little bit in French

She sends cash for your birthday, in the amount of your age, in two-dollar bills

She repairs her own glasses using Band-aids or Scotch tape

She makes Thanksgiving dinner one month after bunion surgery

Her salary, at your age, was $44 every other week

She gave birth on a military base during a tornado, a blackout, an air raid, a flu epidemic – with the help of an ophthalmologist assigned to OBGYN

She learns the rules of every sport her children and grandchildren play

She sleeps upright in a chair at your hospital bedside, pacing quietly at the foot of your bed when her feet bend with cramps

She accepts your friends at holiday meals, even the barefooted ones with tattoos and piercings everywhere

She sends you a Valentine’s Day card every February, with a piece of candy taped inside

She refers to her scars as “beauty marks”

She sends you clippings from the newspaper: anthrax in letters, spinach with bacteria, peanuts are tainted, SARS – just in case

She taped a list of what everyone likes to eat on the inside panel of a kitchen cabinet; she makes your favorites when you visit

She keeps you company during the night while you lay awake sick; she lies awake alone when you are sick and far away

She pretends to be interested in your pet tarantula, iguana, snake, ferret, etc.

She presses her cheek to your cheek even when you’re covered in acne

She sings messages into your voice mail

She counsels you through the hard times: “this is part of life, too”

She sends you a card on Mother’s Day, thanking you for allowing her to be the mother of an exceptional person

Tell her how much she means to you, and she’ll wave it away with the hand that soothed your head, held your hand

“Thank you for calling.” My mother will say. “But don’t exaggerate. There is nothing extraordinary about me.” When I protest, she will change the subject: “Don’t forget to wear boots,” my mother will say, “it’s going to rain where you are.”

Nothing extraordinary indeed.

"A Brief Electronic Affair." The New York Times Magazine, Jan 20, 2011.

"House Hunting." Laugh Out Loud Column, Annapolis Home Magazine, 2010.

"iPhone Fever." Good News Network, 2010.

New York Times Magazine, LIVES column, "Fear and Laughing." August 9, 2009

New York Times, Modern Love, July 1, 2007 - "Whereas You Were an Insensitive Fool"

Winner: 2008 DCJCC Literary Festival "Philodendron"

"Survive the revision process." The Writer Magazine.

"The Ring Leader." Metro Family Magazine, September 2007

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