Mama

What mama wouldn't claim this crew?

 It's not Mother's Day. And I haven't been participating in the thankfulness countdown posts, though I find what various people are grateful for inspiring and sometimes amusing. But tonight, with the recent passing of Granny, my mom's mother, I have been thinking so very much about the woman my mama is. And how my whole world is different because of her presence in it. And how I never want to be here one day without her.

My mama. That's what she called her mother, and that's 
what we, my 3 siblings and I, call her. And when I say it it sounds even more Southern than you're imagining, because my Texas twang comes drawling out of me anytime I talk about something I love deeply. And I love my mama.

My mama can be kind of fiery. I enjoy being a spectator, but not so much being a recipient, of said fire. Like when I told her last week that I might be single but I was going to travel and she should "just get over it." I shouldn't have said it in the first place, and I'll never tell my mama to "just get over it" ever again. My mama stands up for what she loves. She's fought for me in so many ways, and sometimes it's been by fighting with me. 

Me and Mama

My mama gently imparts truths to me with her unique Texas slang and humor. These wisdom-filled colloquialisms encompass a variety of issues ranging in complexity, from weather to love. Describing slippery conditions as "slicker than snot on a doorknob" is one of the few more kosher sayings I feel at liberty to divulge. She's listened to the details of many heart wrenching dramas, and kindly prodded me to move on with the affirmation that "if it's meant to be, it'll be." She's told me "if you got it, flaunt it" but to remember that "you only advertise what you want to sell." And my mama loves me enough to tell me when I'm advertising that which shouldn't be sold.  If it so happens that I don't like what she has to say, she retorts that I "can just get glad in the pants I got mad in."

My mama is tough in the best ways I can think of. She never makes excuses. She's the first to show up and the last to leave. Doesn't complain. She's been my late-night, unpaid teacher's aid. Joyful traveling companion on the most dreadful of trips. Lunch delivery-service. Personal shopping assistant. She's held my hair back while I vomited, waited beside me in bleak doctor's offices and has insisted on cooking for me, despite whatever asinine dietary restrictions I requested she adhere to. She's scrubbed my filthy toilet and washed maggoty dishes when I was too weak to take care of myself. No job is below her or too hard for her. 

Exhibit A

My mama loves me. She tells me. She shows me. I am well aware that she is somewhat delusional about how wonderful I am. Case in point: she thought I was capable of tutoring children in Mandarin after one summer overseas. I could barely say hello. Even hello may have been unintelligible. And that's one instance of many; refer to Exhibit A on left for further evidence. I laugh sometimes about how much she admires the most insignificant contributions I make and the small achievements I attain. But some days, and weeks, and months, after life has chewed you up and spit you back out again, it's nice to know someone thinks you hung the moon. Or, as my mama might say, that you crap gold.

Oh, mama. It's overwhelming to me, all that you've done, all that you're willing to do. The fact that, though you wouldn't let me anyways, I'll never repay you. And that I'll never outgrow you, and don't want to.  I hope I become half of the woman you already think I am. I hope I become half the woman you are. I love you.