Did You Ever Know That You’re My Hero?

 

The first time I went out with Wingman, he remarked about how much I reminded him of his mother.  When we finally met, I just didn't see it: she was a tall, chain-smoking blonde, with a Lauren Bacall-esque voice, while I considered myself just an average size brunette with no distinguishable qualities.

She and I began our own relationship with stories about our lives, and she won every round of "Can You Top This". At 10 years old, she helped deliver her brother when her mother went into labor at home. Later, her alcoholic mother walked out on the family and was never seen or heard from again, so she dropped out of school to help. At 19, she and her husband eloped, and thought no one knew.  A photographer however, took a picture of them outside City Hall which became the cover of the afternoon edition of the NY World Telegram. (Oops.) A couple of years later, her very pregnant self drove her father and his equally pregnant girlfriend to City Hall in Newark to MAKE them get married.  Her half-brother was born a week after Wingman. Mouth dropping stuff that urban legends are made of.

She ran a tight ship at home. She had to. Her husband was a traveling salesman for a GM ball-bearing company and was only home Friday night until Monday morning. She had four boys ranging from 13 to 20, including one with special needs. Weekends with dad meant Sunday night dinners were mandatory for EVERYONE, and I eventually became a regular for her homemade meatloaf, turkey Paprikash and other budget stretching casseroles, but she could never remember that it was Wingman's old girlfriend who hated mushrooms in her salad-not me. 

Before we started dating, she got her GED. By the time I entered the picture, she was studying for her associates degree which landed her an entry level position in an insurance company.  She climbed the corporate ladder quickly while still cooking, cleaning and ironing her boys jeans and tee shirts, a cigarette in one hand with glass of Chablis nearby.  Wingman would complain that I didn’t iron his jeans and I would always tersely reply “You want ironed jeans? Take them to your mother.” When I floundered in my entry level retail job, she suggested that I handle my staff the same way she did and manage like a mother.  At 22 years old, I had NO idea what she meant by that. When she retired, she gave me all of her expensive business suits, a move that Wingman then complained “You don’t just remind me of my mom, now you’re dressing like her too.”

When Wingman and I decided to get married, I wanted to include his daughterless mother in some of the planning.  I recall only one mishap: at a wedding showcase, she introduced herself to the other guests at our table, then said "this is my son Wingman, his fiance and her mother ROSEMARY," which is NOT my mom's name. It was, however, the name of the mother of the non-mushroom eating, ex-girlfriend.  Wingman quickly removed her wine glass and she was flagged for the rest of the night.

At a pre-wedding luncheon, I paid the tab with my new married name AMEX.  She was shocked, and admitted ruefully that it was going to be difficult sharing not only her son, but her name as well.  She insisted on being a part of all of her sons' lives and demanded their presence at every holiday.  It was either her way, or...her way. Nine years into our marriage we moved closer to both sets of parents and I demanded that Christmas Day was now OUR holiday and they would have to come to us or not see the boys.  Score one for the little brunette butterfly who was finally spreading her wings.

Wingman was still well enough to help his parents out when his father was first diagnosed with dementia.  As my boys got older and under less of his control and time together, both men began to sink into their respective black holes until it was just the two of us women who could turn to each other.  On my worst days, I would drive over, have a glass of wine with her and talk about nothing and everything.

With my father-in-law extremely ill, we all sat in the nursing home, waiting for the inevitable.  Wingman’s shaking got so bad in the evening that a nurse insisted that he be hospitalized. She became a widow the next morning. Three months later, I too, became a widow.   Three months after that, both of our homes suffered extensive damage in Sandy.  Too many things in common for two woman in just six months.

When her health started to fail, she began falling and her once beautiful penmanship was reduced to block letters. The thrifty casseroles for six that were replaced by elegant gourmet meals for two became a simple plate for one prepared by her live-in aide. But the worst part was that her memory failed. I wish I could believe that it was a defense mechanism for losing her husband and her oldest son, denying the fears of what will become of her special son, and being estranged from her youngest son. I wish the son who now bears the burden of her care, or my oldest son who has started doing some of the things that Wingman use to do, could hear the stories just one more time about Chukchi Mary, Wujek Victor and Sister Adele. About the kitchen fire and her running into the street in baby doll pajamas. About making homemade peppermint schnapps and chrusciki at Christmas and singing Sto lat. But she can't remember the names, the places nor the details.

It's sometimes said that pets & owners begin to resemble each other.  There are definitely things I now do like my mother-in-law.  Just like her, every year when the boys were in grade school, I dressed them similarly for picture day.  I now manage my younger staff with a firm hand like I did with my children...as frustrating as that is. I understand that my daughters-in-law will roll their eyes whenever the boys talk about me making their names in pancakes the same way I rolled mine when Wingman mentioned her ironing his jeans. I also remembered to KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT when my future daughter-in-law invited me to go wedding dress shopping. I put a good dose of her possessive guilt, albeit jokingly, on my oldest son for wanting to spend holidays abroad. He even complained like Wingman did that he doesn’t want me to give his girlfriend my castoff clothes (even if they are hip) because he doesn’t want her dressing like his mom! I tell the stories that will become my own urban legends, like accidentally locking my 18 month old in a sweltering car while having labor pains 2 minutes apart before delivering a 10 lb.12 oz baby. I even dyed my hair almost blonde at one point.  And yeah, then there's the white wine...

She passed away a couple of weeks ago. I took a late lunch and went to her house, and as luck would have it, it was only her special son, her aide Tess and I in the room with her. We sat watching her for a half hour or so before I stood next to her and said “Mom, Dad is waiting for you with a glass of wine. He has his scotch and Wingman has his vodka. They’re waiting for you to start the party.” With that, she passed quietly. And with her passing I realized that wow, I’m the Matriarch now. Not just a widow, but the glue, or maybe just the scotch tape to try and keep her whole family together. Or maybe just my family. Only time will tell.

Thanks for the memories Mom. You’re leaving big shoes to fill. Even if they include the urban legend of how you only had nine toes.