Published: May 11, 2008 12:18 am            

Mom's always around

Editor’s note: This column was first published May 8, 1998



Mother. It is a word of many colors, many textures, many inflections.

It is a word with which we all are familiar, one word common to our uncommon lives.

We don’t start out saying it. In our early years, our diapered and powdered and soft years, we gurgle and coo a burble of nonsense which, she will proclaim with her hand to her mouth and a gleam of moisture in her eye, sounded just like momma, she’s sure of it. More than likely it was just gas, but you’d never convince her of that.

Later when our mouths and our brains develop a little further and we begin to master rudimentary speech, some variation of momma is the word we most frequently use.

Thus it will continue to be for the next several years. Mommy I’m hungry, mommy I’m scared, mommy he hit me, mommy she’s touching me, mommy I’m sorry I broke the lamp. And then there’s the ever popular, mommy I love you. Say that and she seems to forget all the other stuff.

There comes a day as we advance toward double digits that we decide we won’t call her mommy anymore. Mom sounds much more sophisticated, or perhaps the truly chic among the Saturday morning cartoon set will simply call her mother. Don’t be surprised if, upon being informed of said change in title, a look flits instantaneously across her face like she’s just been kicked in the stomach. For, in a way, she has ... by father time.

For most of us, however, mom’s the word for the next phase of our lives. Mom I’m home, mom what’s to eat, mom where’s my new jeans, mom will you take me to the mall, mom what’s the square root of 346?

The word mom is increasingly used with an imploring tone as we advance through our early teen years. But mom, aw mom, gee mom all the other kids are doing it, mom I can’t believe you won’t let me pierce my ears (substitute any number of body parts here). At some point every mother then hears the following phrase: You’re the meanest mom in the whole world. This would seem to be the pinnacle of mom-hood. When a mom hears these words, she knows she’s made it, she’s doing something right.

Mom continues to be the word as the teen years unfold. Most of those years seem to be spent in a vehicle of some sort. Mom drives you to soccer practice, mom joins the booster club, mom bakes cookies as a fundraiser, mom drives you to school, mom crows over your A’s and clucks over your C’s, mom drives you on your first date (not a real date, mom, we’re just going to movies with some other kids), mom drives you to take your driver’s test. You pass, and the words mom begins to hear above all others are, mom, can I borrow the car?

Once she says yes, you’re gone, literally. You see mom in passing as you stop by the house for a bite between school, band, track, play practice and your job dispensing fast food at a local eatery. Mom’s still around. You can tell because clean clothes keep showing up in your drawers, and there’s always food in the refrigerator. But you don’t talk much anymore.

Then one day you put on a cap and gown and get ready to walk across a stage and all your mom wants to do is take your picture. Gee mom, you’ve taken 100 or so already. How many more do you need?

And then one day mom’s helping you cram your clothes, your boom box, your CD’s and your collection of shoes into your car for your first trip to college. And maybe you confide in her this is all a little scary and you’re really feeling kind of uncertain about what you’ll be facing for the next four years and she says she understands, she was there once herself. And maybe, for the first time, you begin to see your mom as a real, live human being, not just mom.

And as you drive away, you look in the rear-view mirror and see that same look flash across her face, the one you saw the day you stopped calling her mommy. Old father time delivering another body blow to dear old mom.

One day you bring home Bobby, or Sue, to meet dear old mom. He/she’s the one, you say. Mom takes another roundhouse right from sneaky old time.

Mom’s right in the middle of the wedding plans, driving you crazy, but in the end it all comes together and you say the vows and exchange the ring and kiss him/her and turn around and face the congregation as husband and wife and the first face you see is mom’s. And It’s puffy and wet and her makeup’s heading for her chin, but it’s the most beautiful face in the world at that instant.

Mom becomes invaluable as you learn to be married. Mom knows how to do anything, from unstopping a sink, to getting grass stains out of every fabric known to man, to what it means when you/she craves barbecued pork and jelly beans at 3 a.m.

The big day finally comes and there are handshakes and cigars all around, but mom and her daughter are the only ones who know what the cost of this celebration really was.

Mom’s always around, of course, to change and burp and baby-sit. But she’s not mom anymore. She has a new job description. She’s grandma, and she’s got father time on the ropes, hoping to be saved by the bell.

And one day your diapered and powdered and soft little bundle of heaven is cooing and gurgling and, what was that sound? Was it, could it be, it had to have been. He/she said, momma.

And dad thinks to himself it was probably just gas but, in a rare fit of good sense, he keeps his mouth shut.



Mullin is senior writer of the News & Eagle.