Something Like a PheMomenon

Phenomenon (n.) an occurence that can be observed and studied and that typically is unusual or difficult to understand or explain fully

PheMomenon (n.) an occurrence involving my mother, whom can be observed and studied, and whom is typically unusual and difficult to understand or explain fully

My mother performed her latest pheMomenal feat on Monday, by waking up and magically being a year older. Fifty-six, a number of which she is not ashamed. My mother doesn’t fear numbers, or much of anything for that matter. And if she does, she bares her most blinding, bullish show of bravery. True Taurus, she is. You’d never know the difference.

I, on the other hand, am afraid of numbers, of 56 and the numbers thereafter. Both of my maternal grandparents, many of their siblings, and one of my mother’s siblings all died before age 65. Cancer and heart disease could be our distant cousins the way they’re always interrupting our family reunions.

I think God talked my mom into making me her namesake in order to demonstrate just how many different variations of Roconia He could make. She is called Connie, derived from the more stressed syllable of our name. I’ve been dubbed Ro, derived from the softer syllable. Sometimes, it seems that we don’t share much more than a name. Were it not for my strong cheekbones, and even stronger will, I might have suspected adoption.

Where she is 5’3″, I’m 5’10”. She is impulsive and I always need a plan. I am careful and calculative with my words, she is, well, not. You wouldn’t believe some of the things she has said to me. And I can’t tell you because she made me promise not to write Sh*t my Mother Said until after she dies. We share a similar temper, but we serve it up differently. I boil mine, let it evaporate under the surface into clouds of brooding vengeance. She deep-fries hers, then throws a little water in, for a loud, crackling, dangerous effect.

My mother read that last paragraph, arms crossed, eyes squinted, jaw off-set in typical no she didn’t fashion. She thinks I only see her one way, short and angry like a firecracker. And while it is true that my sister and I did call her “Firecracker” for a good two years, I do recognize the other things in her, too. The good things.

Then how come you never mention them, huh, she is thinking, right now, as she reads this. If she’d uncrossed her arms for even a second, she has undoubtedly re-crossed them now. Bemusement changes the shape of her mouth, and now she’s smiling. You think you know it all Missy Ro. 

No, Mommy, you’re just predictable.

She is predictable in her unpredictability. I can usually predict that, at any given moment, she may do something outrageous and that I won’t immediately be able to understand her reasoning behind it. So, I’ve taken to studying and predicting her mannerisms. How she chews the inside of her mouth when she is thinking, how her bottom lip enters the room before she does when she’s pissed, how her pronunciation of our name depicts her mood. “Ro,” or “RoCONNuh,” is normal. A string of “RoRoRo’s” means she’s being playful. “ROconnuh” or a low, slow, soft “hey, RO,” coupled with squinted eyes means deep, deep kimchi.

There she goes again, talking about everything but the good, my mother is thinking. I haven’t forgotten, Mommy. And, in answer to your everlasting question, I don’t always talk about or verbally recall the good things because these good things don’t belong in my mind or my mouth.

The best thoughts of my mother have been deposited and stored directly into my heart.  Thoughts of the time she taught me how to pronounce “comprehension,” and memories of the time when I was three and she let me wear red nail polish like her. Thoughts of how her skin is always soft and cool on a hot day and how she read books like Pride and Prejudice to us when we were young, hoping to give us some advantage in school. Thoughts on when I see books like Are You My Mother, The Cat in the Hat, Winnie the Pooh: X Marks the Spot, Green Eggs & Ham, or any of the Golden Edge Books, I am instantly jolted to my childhood bottom bunk staring up at my mother. She is illuminated by a lamp with no shade, a book in one hand, a fizzing cup of Coke in the other. I am staring eagerly as I listen to her perform the absolute best voices for each character. Sometimes, before bed, she would make our favorite teddy bears dance, snap their necks, and scold us. I would almost cry with laughter.

I have an archive of great things about my mother, which I keep quiet about, because it takes work to excavate and share them. They are deep, and they are mine.  The one good thing, which I may never mention aloud, but of which I always remind myself, is that my mother never, ever, ever, gave me any less than her best.

 

So, for her birthday, I did my creative best. I rounded up a few of my kiddie cousins and made a video to one of her favorite  jams “Uptown Funk.” I’m no videographer, but it’s the thought that counts and creativity is free key. Happy Birthday Little Mommy!

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SN6FpvMaENs&feature=youtu.be