Mom

A mother understands what a child does not say.

-Jewish proverb

This week marks 15 years since my mom passed away. 180 months. 5,475 days.

My memories come back in spurts. They arise when remembering past experiences. Almost everyone has rose colored glasses of their parents. This is especially true after they pass away. I’m attempting here to be as realistic as possible. To record who she truly was. My five nieces and one nephew are 5 and under. They ask about grandma Wendy wanting to hear stories about her. I want her to be remembered for future generations.

Mom was smart and caring. Always helping others. Never smoked. Rarely drank. Ate healthy. Swam. Consistently worked out. She was an occupational therapist. Others looked up to her for her actions. Other moms looked up to her as the super mom. It was clear from early accolades that her children were special. Parents asked her for advice on how to raise their kids. Mom obliged. But she wasn’t without her faults.

Mom was a terrible cook. She cooked dinner for the family every night. We sat and ate together. She bought the cheapest ingredients from the store, probably thinking it’s all the same. Our dad never complained. I had to douse my steak in ketchup for any semblance of flavor. I chewed each piece twenty times before swallowing and even then it was a choking hazard. The salmon was dry. The pasta was watery. The meatloaf was flavorless. A mediocre meal was a rare treat.

Like most Jewish mothers, mom cared about saving money… a lot. She’d get gas at Costco because it was cheaper. Costco was farther away than other gas stations, and you needed to wait in line. It was more about signaling how important being frugal was to her. In contrast, our dad professed to not care about money. He’d always say “we have plenty of money.” This would annoy mom to no end. She was frugal and wanted our family to be frugal.

She prioritized stability. Her risk aversion was extreme. She pushed my oldest brother to work at Microsoft and pushed me to become an accountant. Along with my dad, she wanted us to get graduate degrees. None of her kids got graduate degrees. None of her kids got normal jobs. None of her kids were risk averse.

She cared about school and grades. Beyond health, for her children, she thought grades were the most important thing. I never cared about grades.

Mom constantly read. As a child, she got in trouble for sneakily reading books during class. The teacher told her parents it was a first. They never had to discipline a child for reading.

She spent her energy learning and solving other people’s problems. She spent her life helping others. Helping other moms, other children, her patients. Mom deeply cared about others. It was a compulsion.

She’d strike up conversations with strangers in public. Whether at a grocery store or hospital. It embarrassed my brothers and me to no end, although it probably wasn’t as awkward as we perceived it at the time. 

When mom knew the correct answer, she couldn’t help but give it. She wasn’t pushy, but she’d make sure she put the truth out in the world. It itched her compulsion to help others.

She was my confidant. I’d tell her everything. Sometimes I’d take a while to tell her, but I’d eventually tell her everything. She’d listen, profess her unconditional love, and then dispense her advice.

Mom would worry about everyone and everything. She wanted us to be safe and live long, healthy lives. Even with her worrying, she was an optimist. She wished the best for the world and those around her. She joked when her eyes were yellow that luckily she wasn’t possessed, it’s just the cancer taking her liver. Even on her last legs, she didn’t give up. She kept taking medications and never went on hospice care. She held out hope until the end.

When she passed away, my uncle told me there clearly isn’t a God. If there was a God, she’d be the last of us to go. But as mom would say, c’est la vie.