Da Count - Mom

Mothers are wonderful, beautiful, very special and often even magical people. Take my Mom. When Francine's Mom died, my Mom immediately headed down (she lives about 6 hours away) to stay with us for the week. Yes, she was here to offer support to us, but it was mostly because we needed to have someone look after Alexander while we made the hundred different arrangements for the funeral, and spent most of a handful of days at the funeral home.


She, of course, apologized that she didn't really do much for us around the house (thinking she should have been cooking, cleaning, making calls, arranging things for us, etc) -- typical. Having her look after and play with Alexander was a top-priority item for us and allowed us the peace of mind knowing he was being cared for and happy to see Baba Jean (my own Baba (Ukranian/Polish for Grandmother) is still alive, and she's always been Baba to everyone, so my Mom has become Baba Jean).

It was Francine and I who felt bad because we pretty much spent the whole week not spending much time with her and eating cold meat and buns. We never once got to cook a nice sit-down meal for her, or take her out for dinner to thank her for her hard work.

And hard work it was. She arrived on the Sunday afternoon, and basically ran all around the house with Alexander for the whole day. When Alexander went to sleep in the early evening, my Mom was not too far behind, virtually dropping into bed from exhaustion. (And I have to tell you, it was really cute how the only snoring you could hear echoing through the house came from Alexander's room and Baba Jean's room -- they were both snoring so loud that when our Voxcom alarm went off twice in the middle of the night due to the door sensors being damaged by the combination of extreme cold and moisture, neither of them budged in their sleep -- and let me tell you, that alarm is not quiet -- you can hear it inside the neighbours house two doors down when it goes off)

In typical motherly fashion, my Mom is hypercritical of herself. When she sees pictures of herself she says she looks fat, has a big mouth, or whatever other thing she can say. I suppose she can't understand how beautiful she is to me in all aspects.

Mom lost her soul-mate, my father a few years ago. It was at the time of life many people look forward to. He had just retired and then had planned on doing those things they always wanted to do -- go on longer than simple weekend fishing trips, heading out West on a vacation, and taking a cruise. They never got to do those things, with the exception of a few of those extended fishing trips, which I'm so glad they were able to do. When I get sad thinking about how I miss my Dad, I can only imagine how lonely and difficult it is for my Mom. And yet, in that typical motherly fashion, she's strong, there for others, always giving, never taking. Not long before my Dad died, I caught a glimpse of the depth of how much he loved my Mom through an in depth conversation we were having. It was a very special moment.

My Mom is not my birth Mother. I was adopted. I have met my birth Mother and she's an amazing, wonderful woman. And I mean no disrespect to her by saying this: But my Mom is my Mom is my Mom. Regardless of the fact that she didn't give birth to me makes her no less my true and real Mom. I've always felt that way and always will.

I could go on for days discussing how wonderful my Mom is, how much she means to me and how much I love her. She chased away the bogeyman when I was a child, and even now, at the end of the day, when I call her, she has a way of making me feel good just by talking to her.

Thanks, Mom, for being you.