Mother's day weekend. It's kind of an odd time for me, because most of the people I know still have both parents. My mother passed away suddenly 5 years ago this past March, and I still miss her. It seems like it was just last week that we were joking and laughing and catching up over a pot of coffee that she always put on for us whenever I stopped over. I still visit my father every week, and half the time when I walk in, I expect her to be sitting at the kitchen table, talking on the phone and drinking a cup of coffee just like old times.
We were a lot alike, and I think I got some of my best traits from her. We were both quick to laugh and quick to forgive, and we both were able to find humor just about anywhere. With that in mind, I thought my post today would be in her honor. Here's a little look through the window that was "life with mom."
When I was about 16 and needed a suit for my first semi-formal school dance, she towed me and my little brother to the Boy's department at Sears. We looked around for something suitable, but the pickings were slim. Everything was either too small or too big. I was always pretty average, so most stuff in my size sold out quickly. I was wandering around aimlessly, while my mother perused the racks. Suddenly, I heard her say, "Here's one! It looks PERFECT."
She had found the only suit in the store that was my size.
Unfortunately, it was currently being worn by a store mannequin, who clearly wasn't going to be needing it for a dance the next day.
My mother hunted around for a sales person for a few minutes, but patience was not her strong suit. We were standing by the vacant register, waiting for help, but none was forthcoming in the 30 seconds she actually had patience for.
She looked at me and said, "Go take that suit off that dummy."
"No way!" I said. "I'm not undressing a dummy in the middle of the store."
Obviously, neither was she. She turned to my brother, who was 4 years younger than me, and embarrassed by absolutely nothing. "Go grab the jacket," she instructed. He dutifully sauntered over to the mannequin and pretended to look at the inside of the coat. Within seconds, he had the coat almost off, but the left hand was giving him trouble. He yanked the jacket, turning the sleeve inside out. The mannequin teetered on its base, then the coat broke free. Unfortunately, so did the mannequin's hand. He brought them both back.
My mother turned the jacket rightside in, and fished out the dummy hand, discarding it inside a round clothes rack. "Try this on" she instructed me. I did as I was told. Against all my most fervent hopes, it was a perfect fit.
This was not good.
"It's a
perfect fit!" my mother exclaimed happily. "We
HAVE to get those pants."
She turned to look for my brother, but he was already over at the dummy, fiddling with the fly on the pants. It appeared to be stuck. People walking by were looking at him, and my mother and I were pretending that he wasn't ours. The pants were not coming off easily, but he was not deterred. He knew his mission. My mother would
have these pants, at any cost. He untucked the shirt, and unbuttoned the bottom of it so he could get a better look at the zipper. Still no go. It was stuck good.
He looked over to my mother for instruction, but before my mother could even formulate next stage of the plan, he came up with his own. He tipped over the mannequin, and dragged it forward until it came crashing down off its base. Holding it under its arms, he started dragging it backwards toward the rear of the store. My mom nonchalantly followed my brother and the dummy, as if following a 12 year old who was dragging a disheveled, handless mannequin across the store was something she did every day. I followed too, wearing my spiffy new jacket and looking around for a hole to crawl into so I could conveniently die of embarrassment.
Safely hidden behind a rack of bargain shirts, my mother started working on the pants. The zipper was indeed stuck, but the reason wasn't apparent. We were all huddled over the mannequin's crotch, trying to figure out why the pants weren't cooperating.
"Jiggle it," my brother said helpfully.
"I AM jiggling it," my mother replied.
"Do the feet come off?" she asked him, as if my twelve-year-old brother had suddenly become an Expert Mannequin Technician of the highest order.
"I think so," he said, moving down to feet level. He gave the left one a tug. "I 'm not sure," he said. "You try it."
My mother ducked around to the his end, and my brother and I went back to work on the zipper. It was mostly him, because I was too embarrassed to really put my heart into it. My mother started yanking on the foot, while my brother was simultaneously tugging on the zipper. The mannequin was banging around on the floor like it was in the throes of a full-blown epileptic seizure.
Suddenly, we were interrupted by a loud "Can I HELP you?"
Startled, we all looked up at the same time, our attention momentarily drawn away from the dummy violation in progress.
The saleslady was not amused.
"Can I HELP you?" she repeated.
"No, we're just looking," my mother replied, twisting off a dummy foot.
"You can't DO that," the saleslady said.
"We can't look for a suit for my son? This was the only blue suit left in his size," she said, twisting off the other foot.
"NO, you can't do THAT," the saleslady replied, pointing at the foot in my mother's hand. "What you're doing to the dummy. You're not supposed to REMOVE them from the pedestal, and you're certainly not supposed to take them APART. You should have asked for assistance, because there is a SPECIAL way to remove the clothing without damaging it." She was clearly pissed.
"Well, you weren't AROUND when I NEEDED help, so I decided to help MYSELF," my mother replied reasonably, sliding the pants down the legs and off, not missing a beat.
She stood up, holding the suit pants. She messed with the inside for a second, and the zipper slid down. "Go try these on," she said to me, handing me the purloined pants and pointing me in the direction of the changing rooms. I practically ran to the changing room, desperate for any excuse to remove myself from the middle of this conversation.
I took my time. I sat in the dressing room, wondering if there was a way I could tunnel through the wall and escape. I sat there until I heard the muffled conversation go from slightly heated to warm to cool. My mother was good that way. She could take someone who was flamingly pissed, and talk them down and have them laughing all in the space of 5 minutes.
When I figured it was safe to return, I came back wearing the pants. The saleslady was just propping the footless, handless dummy against the wall. My mother helpfully rooted around inside the clothes rack and came up with the hand. She offered this to the saleslady, who clicked it back on to the wrist. My mother then turned her full attention toward me, critically eyeing the hard-won pants.
"They'll do," she said. "We'll just take them up a bit -- they're a little long, but other than that, they fit nice. Now we just have to find you a shirt and tie." She was already turning back toward the mangled mannequin.
The saleslady was one step ahead of us, and had already removed the shirt and tie. She handed them to my mom, who handed the shirt to me. I didn't know how to tie a tie yet.
I trudged back to the changing room without a word.
I ended up wearing my full dummy ensemble to the dance, and even though my mother's methods were unorthodox, I can't fault her taste. It was a rocking suit, even if it
was the last one in the store. Personally, I like to think it looked a lot better on me than it did on that dummy, but I'm not sure about that. I know my mom thought it did.
So mom, wherever you are today, I just want to say:
Thanks for the laughs, thanks for the love, and most of all, thanks for being my mom every step of the way. I love you. Happy Mother's Day.
