Marshmellow Fluff

I am stubborn, for this I blame my mom.

I have trouble asking for help, for this I blame my mom.

I understand the delicate balance between silly and smart, for this I blame my mom.

I would chose a nice guy over a bad boy any day, for this I blame my mom.

I know what it means to always be independant, for this I blame my mom.

I’ve worked hard to get where I am, for this I blame my mom.

I know what it takes to earn something, for this I blame my mom.

I blame my mom for a lot of things.  Most of them being the qualities I possess which I am most proud of.

My mom is small but mighty.  She possesses a strength that is part fierce independence with an underlying vulnerability and love that she shows during the moments that count.  Like when I seven and needed something to make me smile, so my mom put underwear on her head as she was folding laundry and sang I Feel Pretty.  Or the time I forgot my umbrella at home when it was pouring rain so she delivered a brand new bear handled umbrella to me in my classroom.  Not only was it a cool move, but I became the proud owner of the most coveted umbrella in the third grade.

I grew up in awe of my mom; the way she worked out like a machine, the fact that she could survive off hard boiled eggs and cottage cheese alone, the idea that she could wake up at 5 a.m. with unbridled energy. Not to mention that she was beautiful, and was never at a loss for men who wanted to be in her presence.  I would study her through my thick bifocals and wonder how someone so pretty could have created a specimen like me; an awkward, clumsy, bat-visioned, ratted red-headed child.  But as I grow older the similarities between my mom and I are undeniable.  Our laughs both turn into cackles if they last more than 5 seconds, both our noses tip up at the end, and we are both at a loss when it comes to asking for help.

Asking for help was never something my mom was good at.  The older I get the more I understand this was probably formed from necessity. After being let down too many times, maybe she was forced to become independent, and after being strong for so long maybe it’s hard to go back.  I never truly understood how deep that need ran until the day our car broke down.  I was around 7 years old when our little Hyundai couldn’t make it the last 4 blocks home and coasted to a halt. My mom calmly steered the car into the bicycle lane, flung the drivers side door open, propped her left hand steadily onto the open door frame, grabbed the steering wheel with her right hand and then pushed with all her might.  Mind you, this was a fairly busy street and many guys predictably pulled over and offered to help.  More than a dozen men must have stopped and offered help and all were met with the same response from my mom, “it’s okay, I got it.”  And she always did.  Even in the moments when she didn’t have it, she never let on.

She worked hard, made sure we lived in a nice neighborhood and went to a good school.  She always made sure that we had great birthdays, loving Christmas’ and notes in our lunchbox telling us how much we were loved.  And in return I always wished that my mom would find someone to love her as much as she loved me. I spent the greater part of my younger years studying the guys my mom dated.  I took notes on how they laughed how they acted towards my brother and I when she wasn’t in the room, how they walked.  I convinced myself that if I could discover the formula for what was wrong with them, one day I would be able to find the perfect guy for her.  Unfortunately the only thing I became good at through this exercise was determining the kind of guys to stay away from when I was old enough to date.

When I was around 23, long after I had moved out of the house and began making my own way in life, I came home to meet my mom’s new boyfriend. I was poised for the worst but Tony, the guy, seemed nice enough.

Over time I got to know Tony better.  After spending years perfecting my ability to spot a jerk in no time flat, through careful and meticulous observation, I was poised to take notes on him.  Funny thing was that when it came down to it I didn’t have to study Tony, I only had to study my mom. For the first time I saw my mom more relaxed.  She didn’t seem to carry the same tension, a tension I never realized was there until it was gone.   For the first time I actually felt my mom’s hopes for someone to depend on wouldn’t be met by disappointment.

A few years ago, after a number of years being together, my mom and Tony got married in a very small ceremony (just my brother and I) on a beach in Kauai. One of the many reasons I love Tony so much is that he was the one to cry during the ceremony…my mom of course did not.  Tony is a good balance for my mom. He makes her softer and she makes him happy.   Granted my mom will always keep a small part of herself separate from everything, forever at the ready to stand on her own, but the great thing is – I think she finally realizes she may not have to anymore.

What I had always hoped for finally happened, she found the love that seemed to elude her for all my years growing up.  It seems funny to call Tony my step dad because I met him in my twenties.  Truth be told though, he is more than a step dad.  He is the first person to ever come into our lives that I trusted with my mom’s heart and with mine.  He is a good man and even though it took us over twenty years to find him he was well worth the wait.

My mom and Tony both celebrated their birthdays in August so with that I will close with happy birthday to you both, I love love love you!