After talking to The Wife the other day, I realized something truly amazing. She had the same mom as we did growing up at 110 Flamingo Street.
Just how that could happen, I have no idea. But the similarities are so striking, I’m sure that our moms must be one and the same person or at least twins. Let’s compare the two ladies and, if you are over 40, you may notice something else surprising. Growing up, you had the same mom also.
Both were college-educated, stay-at-home moms. Mom was always up before any of us five kids, and The Wife’s mom was up before her four kids. Both always went to bed long after we did. Or at least I think that’s what happened. Actually, neither one of us remember seeing our moms in bed. Guess that’s the only way to explain how they were able to accomplish everything they did every day.
Moms never sleep.
Never sleeping would explain how our moms had the time to cook three meals a day. Sure, between mouthfuls of food and food fights, we’d manage to mumble out a thank you a few times. But it wasn’t until years later, when we were out on our own, that any of us understood and appreciated the monumental task of what went into preparing three home cooked meals every day of the week. Not to mention the cleaning up afterwards.
Moms never stop cleaning.
Dirty faces, sticky hands, mountains of laundry, or even the entire house — if it was dirty, our moms cleaned it. Even today, I don’t know how they did it.
The gray quicksand of Cripple Creek coated our socks anytime we played in the frigid waters. For three years, the fine silt dirt from the Cliff Condos excavation was ground into our pants. On any given day, rocks and small animals could be found in our pockets, and blood at least once a week stained our clothes.
None were a match for my mom. Except when it came to the surprises we occasionally left in our pockets, never once did I hear her complain. Much more than someone who just did laundry, cleaned, or cooked, our moms took care of us.
Mom was always there when we needed her the most. She helped us with our homework, taught us how to cook, and explained why white socks don’t go with everything. A concept even today I have difficulties with.
When Candi crushed my heart in the third grade, Mom was there with a reassuring hug. Whenever we were bleeding or hurting, Mom was there to bandage the injury and wipe away our tears. After winning the state championship in wrestling, Mom gave me a congratulatory hug. When we lost Older Brother Richard, we gave each other hugs.
Moms give comfort when no one else can.
Mom made us feel better when we were sick. Sure, Dad would look in on us, but it was Mom who placed countless cool washcloths on our heads to help break fevers. Like a guardian angel, Mom sat beside our bedside all night watching over us. Whenever I was sick, her face was the last I saw as I drifted off to sleep and the first one I saw upon opening my eyes.
As far back as I can remember, I can’t remember Mom being sick. There can be only one explanation.
Moms never get sick.
Like The Wife, I grew up with a mom who didn’t work outside the home until all the kids left for college. This occurred much more during the ‘50s and ‘60s than it does today. Looking back at all that our moms did for us — not sleeping was the only way they had time to accomplish everything.
But even with not sleeping, moms of today somehow do all the above and hold down a fulltime job. A mom’s job today is just about impossible and yet, somehow, the job still gets done.
Growing up at 110 Flamingo Street, Dad said many more times than I can remember, “You don’t really appreciate something until you lose it.” Unfortunately, when it came to Mom, he was absolutely right.
That day was the day everything changed. I learned just how fragile and special life actually is. I also learned something else — how I had taken for granted that the life we all enjoyed while growing up would go on forever.
Sadly, nothing is forever.
I know this may be an odd way of ending a column commemorating Mom’s special day, but sometimes reality is indeed a solemn event.
Set any differences you may have aside, and go visit your parents. Greet your dad with a hug. Hug your mom not once, but twice — once for you, and once for all of those things that all moms do for all of us.
[Rick Ryckeley, who lives in Senoia, served as a firefighter for more than two decades and has been a weekly columnist since 2001. His email is storiesbyrick@gmail.com. His books are available at www.RickRyckeley.com.]
