To Ma, with Love….

Published in 'Outflow' March 2007

From a handful, to a mother that was ‘up to the task’…

I never realised how much my mother meant to me until she was gone. Yes, I knew I loved her, no doubt about that. There were several occasions though, actually, many occasions, when I was a younger girl, when that love was more to do with the fact that she was my mother and I had to love her, and less to do with how I actually felt about her at that point in time.

My mother was, to use the literal translation of a metaphor in my native language, ‘not a soft piece of meat’. This basically means she was a tough woman. Oh yes, mummy-O was ‘tough love’ personified.

Never one to back down in an argument (not like one should be arguing with one’s mother really, but this is a reflection of the type of upbringing she had given us…) I grew up in a ‘don’t be afraid to speak your mind’ kind of home. Sure, speaking my mind got me into lots of trouble lots of times, and even though ‘the rents’ as my sister and I used to call our parents, encouraged speaking freely, they also let you know in no uncertain terms the consequences of failing to find the right balance between ‘free speech’ and the ‘first commandment with a promise’. And mummy-O was the disciplinarian of the pair, no doubt.

I remember on a particular occasion, I was probably all of 15 years old. A neighbour of ours, a Moslem lady, had visited us and presented our family with a big bowl of stewed fried meat – a customary gesture by Moslems in our corner of the world towards their non Moslem neighbours and friends after the Eid-El Fitri festivities. Now I happen to be particularly fond of stewed fried meat, and the way I saw it, this bowl was destined for the snack tray - I mean, I couldn’t very well snack on the meat in mummy-O’s soup pot, (trust me, I had tried in the past, and her reaction?, what can I tell you? it wasn’t pretty…)

But I digress, back to neighbour lady and her bowl of stewed fried meat. This neighbour’s gift bowl as I said before, presented the unique opportunity for me to have a continuous pipeline of munchies well into the following Thursday at the very least. I could already savour the flavour. Mummy Warbucks however had other plans. She effusively thanked the neighbour, and after the kindly lady had taken her leave, mummy-O proceeded to wrap up the meat and promptly deposited the bowl with the cold cuts she had kept for our family dog, Lucky.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Mummy what are you doing??!! I exclaimed, or more specifically, why are you wasting such a lovely bowl of meat on this mutt??! It’s just not fair!! She proceeded to explain to me that while she appreciated neighbour lady’s well intentioned gesture, she did not feel comfortable eating meat that according to her had been consecrated to a faith she did not believe in, and to a god she did not know. Her Christian conscience, she said would not allow it. ‘Well let me at it then’, I ranted, as I rummaged through the freezer trying to salvage the meat before it mingled too closely with Lucky’s dinner, my Christian conscience has no quarrel whatsoever with this stewed fried meat. Of course, she wasn’t having it.

I was miffed to say the least. I had to set her straight, so in my 15 year old wisdom, I declared, Mummy, you’re just paranoid! Oooh, did I hear it that day. The first thing she did was to bring out her cherished Chambers English dictionary, her ready accomplice in my frequent scrabble trouncings. She proceeded to make me read out the meaning of paranoid. The very existence of the two words ‘mental disorder’ in the chambers definition spelt the tone of my punishment that day. She didn’t lay a finger on me - huh! I should be so lucky. Rather, I immediately attained the status of the 15 year old who had declared her own mother mentally unstable. Over and over again she restated it until the implication of what I had said registered fully with me, and then some. Do we have to be quite so literal about this, I whined in a tiny contrite voice, as I squirmed uncomfortably at this mental torture.

Lessons learnt you ask?

1: there are phrases that are good to use on your friends, but not quite so good to use on your parents,

2: your mother is not always a good bouncing board for your vast command of the English language.

There was nothing especially significant about that story; it was just one of many stories. Memories of my mother that punctuate the landscape of my life. I remember the years I think of now as my turbulent teenage uprising. I wasn’t a particularly bad child, but I wasn’t one of the Huxtable kids either. I remember my apparent determination to be an ‘in’ chick. It was rather inconvenient though, that I had a mum who was just as determined that I would be ‘out’ of the loop as far as that ‘cool crowd’ was concerned. Inevitably, a game of cat and mouse resulted.

I remember one of those days when I'd be receiving an earful amidst well evened out thwacking, she would say to me with such resolution in her voice, I will not let you run riot, never! If you’ve been a teenage girl, you know how it goes, the kind of things you do that are sure to irk your mother, when you leave the house dressed in a set of clothes, looking quite like the Amish, but knowing full well that the set of clothes you really intend to wear is in your back pack…or… you don’t know how it goes…ok… maybe that’s just me then… sorry…

Very aggravating though, mummy-o seemed to have eyes everywhere. So I would return home in my Little Bo Beep ensemble, feeling quite slick about having pulled off this little feat of parental deception, only to be confronted with a very precise description of my real wardrobe that day. How on earth does she do it? I would wonder.

Then there were the late nights I would keep sometimes, and how she would wait at the gate till my return at midnight or sometimes later. I was a little older by now, so I had grown a bit too big to be whipped for such irresponsible behaviour, but the verbal telling off I got was no less severe.

Of course, as I grew older, and more mature, our relationship lost its cat and mouse character - I was no longer reckless, and had developed into quite a responsible young lady, even if I say so myself. She on her part had attained a less ‘Thatcheresque’ posture. Sure, we still had our quibbles, as mothers and daughters always will, but they were fewer and farther between now.

I remember her today as I write; I remember her laughter, her encouragement, her resourcefulness, her strength, but beyond all, her unflinching and unwavering love. It’s funny how easy it is to assume our mothers will always be around. Even when mine developed the medical condition that led to her passing, she bore it for many years with faith and dignity, and it never once occurred to any of us that she would be called home as a result of it.

I knew back then, that she was all the things that I so fondly remember her for now, but oh for a chance to say it to her more. I thank her for the woman I have become. I thank her for not letting me run riot. I thank her for loving still, when love should have run its course.

What do you want to thank your mother for? As you read this, appreciate your mother. If she lives faraway, give her a call. If she’s near, give her a hug, a squeeze, a kiss. If you’re a husband, your wife is a mother to you in a sense. She is mother to your children, and the upholder of your line. Our mothers deserve our love, they deserve our appreciation. They are women of valour, mothers in Israel. As you read this, purpose to do something special for your mother. The Lord knows she deserves it.