She is my worst critic, my best friend, and my worst nightmare; she is my mother.
When I was small, my parents divorced, and she was left alone with me most of the time. I lived at my mum's house during the week and would visit my dad on the weekend. My mum and I grew to become - and still are - incredibly close. Often, I remember, we would stay up late and indulge in (my favourite) mini sour-apples. They were so tiny and a nice shiny green. Then, we would wake up really early and indulge in at least an hour of television - Care Bears all the way. As time passed, both my parents remarried and now live in stable, cozy homes.
In the 1970s, my mother was a backup singer, and my father was (and still is) a bass player. So, naturally I have grown to become a very talented musician. Since I am so naturally talented, I neglect practicing my natural talents. I will often sing along with the radio to make up for this lost time, but on the off chance that I should take the time to assemble my saxophone, press 'power' on the piano, or dust off my guitar, I am greeted by my mother's vocal abilities.
"Jess, you should practice more," she says. Practice more? Considering my natural talents, perhaps she should be thankful I play at all. At her comment, I am wise to keep my mouth shut. At any reply (even a "you're right, mum"), her pleasant, glowing demeanour is shattered. From her beauty emerges the eight-foot, demeaning lecture hall professor who's nose hairs are too long and always seem to be right in your face. Then again, if no reply meets her criticism, she sends you on the guilt trip of a lifetime - free of charge.
Growing up, my mother’s family was poor. They moved to Canada from England when she was nine and settled into a cozy house in Bramelea, Ontario. My mother was on the starting line of her high school basketball and volleyball teams. But her family (as she was one of five children) rarely came out to cheer her on. They never had enough money for the music lessons she so badly wanted; however, she took piano for one year during her preteen-hood. It amazes me to watch her now that she is the owner of a business and proud mother of three, as she never had tremendous support from family. I have had music lessons (and dance, and acting, and sports, and…) all my life – not to mention beyond-full support. Maybe I should practice more…She really likes giving away free trips to Guilt.
Earlier this year, my school’s music council held a Bowl-a-thon. I love bowling, and put together a team of all my favourite school people as soon as the Bowl-a-thon was announced. Unfortunately, my whole team left to be on another. I was, well, crushed. A new team and four nearly-squashed friendships later, I found myself crying on the floor of my mother’s room. I had no friends. I had no hope. I had my mother. She sat on her bed in front of me and consoled my friendless self until the middle of the night. I can talk to her about anything, and she’s always there to listen, even with two other children, an overworked husband, and herself to look after.
Not only does she have a soft shoulder (I think I’ve made a permanent groove from leaning on it), but she has an infectious laugh. One night I was doing the dishes, and she came into the kitchen. We were singing along to the radio – in perfect harmony – when a dance break occurred in the middle of the song. Off we went dancing like mad fools with soapy hands and dishtowels flailing when – I whacked my foot on the cupboard. We were in hysterics. A half hour, an hour, I don’t know how long, but at the end of our catastrophe we had done the equivalent of a begillion-zillion stomach crunches.
I have so much fun with my mum. Her beauty and kindness – craziness is probably in there too – radiate from her skin. She stands in front of me trying on different combinations of ‘chic-business-suit’ every morning and I watch her, astonished. Her hair in perfect little ringlets, her even caramel complexion flawless, her immaculate style, and her perfectly toned body boggle my mind. How does she keep it up?
But beyond her perfection, she is also my worst nightmare. The only way to accurately describe how her inner turmoil and stress transform her: midnight pee-breaks. I reach for the doorknob as I attempt to leave the bathroom when the door opens, nearly sending me into the wall. There she stoops. Her black eyes squinting suspiciously in the light, and her hair is imitating Albert Einstein. I jump at this sudden interruption, my hand still reaching for the door, and I race past her not daring to get in her way and try to avoid getting an eye taken out by her unruly hair. Back in the safety of my bedroom, I curl, shaken, into a ball of sleepiness. As is described, she gets frightening when she’s stressed. Her fuse is extremely short, and when the mad-scientist emerges growling; bellowing; and the like, one heads for the hills (i.e. one’s bedroom).
Yet with this minor flaw, I am still in awe with this woman. Someday, I dream of becoming an entrepreneur, musician-on-the-side mother of three who still has time to cook, clean, and watch Will and Grace. Who knows, maybe I will.
