A Love Letter to the Three Single Mothers Who Raised Me
Your efforts were never in vain.
The day I was born I became immortal. Not in the grand scheme but within the small world of three women. From the moment I took my first breath I was the first child, the first grandchild and the first great-grandchild for them.
I even went on to create the first great-great-grandchild in our sprawling family tree. Yes, we were blessed with five generations for a short time.
If you want to talk about a list of lifetime achievements, my list is very short and five generations is at the top.
I was raised by a pack of fierce female wolves and Nana was the matriarch. She was born in 1920. Can you imagine living through inventions like the microwave, the television, and the answering machine?
Nana raised six kids on her own, five of whom were boys. She did it by working as a grocery store cashier and letting the kids pretty much raise themselves. But make no mistake, she intervened with the occasional broomstick when they got out of line.
In Nana’s eyes, I could do no wrong even when I ran around naked at two years old and peed on her coffee table while laughing my round little face off.
I think Nana had no rules for me because she’d put in her time being militant with her own boys. I was her do-over, her breath of fresh air, and we cherished every moment we spent together.
When I felt like running away as a troubled teen, she was who I ran to. I always had a safe place to run and my mom knew where I’d be.
Nana lived for nearly 95 years and I believe I was the reason she held on so long. I wasn’t around much in my chaotic adult life but I came back when they knew her time was near and soon after my visit, she finally let go.
I’m glad Nana crossed over before I did because if I’d left first, it would have killed her. Besides, I needed Nana to get to heaven first. Who else would have welcomed me in with warm, homemade cinnamon buns?
Then there was Gramma
She was my first loving touch in the world, even before my mom. Gramma witnessed my struggle to arrive and take my first breath. While mom lay unwell on the delivery bed it was Gramma who whisked through the hospital halls with the doctors and nurses to make sure I was okay.
In many ways, Gramma was my second mother. She was like “home” to me for a significant portion of my life, sharing in parenting duties with my mom as much as she could.
Even when Gramma moved away for some years early in my life, she was the person I called when my first tooth fell out. She even kept her old answering machine for many years just because it contained messages from me as a little boy.
Throughout my teens and especially into my adult years I made a lot of choices that no Gramma would ever choose for her boy. Choices that didn’t even exist when she was a teen. How could she have ever understood them much less supported me through them?
Yet she stood strong by my side the whole way through.
She even made sure I received a university education. My brilliance was never lost on her. She gave me that gift so I’d have something to look forward to in my future amazing life.
Life IS amazing up here Gramma…it really is. And Nana is still making dill pickles and buns.
Then we have my mom
She’s actually crying and smiling at the same time as she plunks through every single keystroke in this story.
My mom gave me life even before she was sure she could give me a good life. But she did. Probably because she had the cutest boy in the world.
She assumed her roles of backyard birthday party mom, sleepover mom, karate mom, and baseball mom with relative ease. Gramma mostly played hockey mom because whoever invented teen hockey didn’t take into account that parents actually have jobs.
Some of my favorite memories of mom were the simplest of times.
Reading Goosebumps in the dark at bedtime. The choose-your-own-ending editions were my favorite.
Walks on the pathway beneath the train bridge because she knew the deafening rumble of the train was awesome to me.
The military museum because she knew the giant fighter plane out front would fascinate me.
On Friday nights we would order pizza, fold out the futon, and watch movies until we fell asleep. Remember VHS tapes and Jim Carrey in The Mask? Yea, me too.
As I got a little older mom also played the role of cool mom. Everyone liked hanging out at our house because she was the chill mom who enjoyed our company. My friends were always welcome and sometimes we’d have dance parties because we liked the same music.
Eventually, mom moved into her role of school suspension mom, detective mom, and rehab mom, to name a few.
She and Gramma made a strong tag team and although I wouldn’t ever wish to relive those days, I can say with certainty that we were the coolest family in facility visiting rooms.
We were always the family laughing the most and enjoying each other’s company the most. We cherished our visits so much that my mom felt sad for other families who couldn’t seem to just live in the moments they were given.
Mom is happy we chose to live in every moment we were given because she could have never known then that they would be all she has left now.
So, to the three fierce women who raised me, I thank you for accepting me for who I was in every single moment, regardless of how difficult it was. Just know that your efforts were never in vain. I noticed them all and I know I was loved.
I wasn’t an easy kid but look how strong you became because of me. If that was my purpose then I’d call my short life a success.
I’m always watching over two of you and I’m currently baking buns with one of you.
These ‘memoirs of a dead guy’ are lovingly written by a mother who lost her son on September 29th, 2020. His life stories and struggles are compelling and she writes as a means to connect to others who may have similar stories to tell.
