An Ode To Deb

The other night I was on a first date. As is customary, you’re initially asked about the basics: Where you’re from, where you went to college, what’s your family like. (This makes it sound as if it was a boring first date – quite the contrary.) Naturally I spoke of my mother and sister and (as I feared) was subsequently asked about my father. Now look, I get that a vague “he’s not in my life” is relatively ominous and lends itself to further questions. He inquired further. Shit. I was scared. My loud-mouthed self actually stuttered. I don’t want to be dishonest, but I don’t want to be too open as to appear to be spilling my Daddy Issues all across the bar. I’ve been told that makes men run…? (Can’t imagine why.)

But here’s what became blatantly apparent in my mind in that moment – I didn’t want to talk about my father. Years back, if given the opportunity, I instinctively vented my frustration and pain from having had an utter failure of a father. It was as though some sort of switch was involuntarily flipped. I made sure that you knew how justified I was in despising him while simultaneously attempting to convey that I couldn’t help but love him. I clung to my brokenness, unable to fathom that I would one day view myself as more valuable than “damaged goods.” But lately, it’s as if I’ve regained control of that switch. Now when my father is mentioned, my mind steers towards thoughts of my mother.

I think back to when I was a little girl and the way I perceived my parents. Through the optimistic and innocent eyes of a child, parents are  superheros, genetically equipped with capes that flap about in the wind: they’re omnipresent, omnipotent. Parents have it all together. They’re the ones that give you spoonfulls of pink amoxicilin when you’ve got strep throat, diagnose a fever sans thermometer, and blow on your skinned kneecaps after they drench them in hydrogen peroxide. But then you start to grow up and that once seemingly impermeable image begins to crack. You begin to realize that they too are human beings chalk full of character flaws and obnoxious habits. I certainly went through this phase with my mother – I think it’s called High School. As a woman frantically struggling to repair her failing marriage, she wasn’t at her best. She made a lot of mistakes. Despite the purest of intentions, she failed to take the proper measures to take care of herself, her children, and set an example as to how to respect oneself. Cut to post High School. Cut to the end of college. Forgiveness. Life experience and maturity ultimately unveiled this truth: My mother is still growing up, too. Looking back at that period of our lives together, she didn’t know what the hell to do any more than I did. We were both just trying to get through another day together. And now, at 56 years old, she’s still trying to find herself.

My early twenties revealed my mother as less of a mother and more of a person – a friend. I’ve come to respect the hell out of this woman who has overcome more than her fair share of loss and mistreatment. I admire her tenacity, humility, and undeniable dedication to her daughters. This is a woman who leads a divorce support group at her local church weekly, discreetly gives money to various charities, mows her own lawn… This is a woman who, born and raised on a farm in rural North Carolina, spent her childhood summers picking tobacco. My mother has grit, determination, and is the single most fiercely loyal person I’ve ever encountered. She hasn’t the slightest clue how beautiful she is, how when she compliments my eyes fails to realize that I got them from her. She’s the one that gently sang “Amazing Grace” to me every night as a little girl when she tucked me into bed. This is a woman who’s humility is apparent when you overhear her playing piano by ear when she thinks no one is home. Despite being an exquisite and eloquent writer, she rarely shares it because she prefers her privacy. Her selflessness knows no bounds: Although divorced, she has driven four hours on multiple occasions to assist her ex-father in law in cleaning my grandmother’s room after she died. She’s the one who recently drove 14 hours from Atlanta to New York, turkey in cooler, because she couldn’t bear the thought of me spending Thanksgiving alone. This is the woman that, despite my glaring hatred for her at the time, obstinately refused to give up on me during the darkest hour of my life – who literally stopped at nothing to ensure that I would be ok, regardless of whether or not I wanted it. My mother gave me life, then turned around 19 years later and saved it. My mother, who’s made it crystal clear that my future husband is required to ask her for my hand in marriage, will be the one to put on my veil and walk me down the aisle.

Words alone fail to do my mother justice. I can’t begin to accurately describe the depth of my love and admiration for her… just how proud of her I truly am. All I can say is that, as we both continue to explore life together, my only hope is that I’m able to be a little bit like her when I grow up.