. . . . I used to make tea for my mother. I remember the routine so clearly. I was able to do it by age 8, if not before. Fill the kettle, get the green cup with the white daisies on it, put the teabag in, get the Half & Half; the tea kettle whistles and I pour the water (making sure not to lose hold of the teabag), and let it steep for a few minutes. Wrap the string around the bag to squeeze it out. Next, put in a couple of spoons of sugar and enough of the Half & Half to make it just the right khaki color, stir, and very carefully deliver it to Mom. I loved making tea for Mom because I knew how much she loved her tea and it made her happy. Sometimes when I knew she was having a particularly bad day, or was upset about something I would surprise her with that little simple gift. Such an English thing to do, just pour a "cuppa" and everything will be better. Sometimes, when it was raining outside and she was coming home after a long day and would have to walk from the garage to the house, I'd meet her with an umbrella so she wouldn't have to get wet. I liked making things for her. Some of our cherished Christmas ornaments are little wooden characters I sanded and painted and gave everyone as Christmas gifts. I wanted to please my mom. I wanted to give her a little break when I felt she needed one. As the quiet daughter, I liked making these quiet sort of efforts.
Mom didn't always have it easy raising us. She was a divorced mother by 1971 when there were very few of those around. I don't think I knew anybody else who had divorced parents. She had to work to provide for us because my dad wasn't reliable with child support. It was a struggle on the salary of an Exxon secretary. For about 5 of our younger years, we were fortunate to have our grandparents living five blocks away. I can't imagine what we would have done without them. I felt so safe just knowing they were there. My sister and I would go to their house after school until Mom got home. We'd drink Dr. Pepper and I'd eat marshmallows. Life wasn't too bad for a kid in these circumstances, but I could always feel the struggle for Mom. I didn't fully understand it at the time, but when I was a single mother myself, I recognized what she went through. When I was 11, she married my step-father, Walter, and he continued to raise us well and loved us, considering me and Katharine his own daughters all along until the day he died. My growing up years had other issues which were difficult, but they're not important here. My focus here is Mom and all that she has given me through the years, a life I've often tried to thank her for, although inadequately, and a love I always wanted to feel worthy of.
My mother gave me many gifts. The gift of life is an obvious cliche, but in my case, that wasn't an easy gift. I was premature, had to be delivered by c-section, and was completely enclosed inside the placenta --- not the amniotic sac, but the actual placenta. I weighed just a little over 5 pounds, and clearly, I was a little weird from the get go. My older sister Katharine was the show-stopper in the family and I was quite content to be the quiet, smiling one. I was a happy child, and I liked peace. I didn't always have peace, but Mom taught us ways of distraction I have carried since. She gave us music and books, maps and culture. Katharine and I spent endless hours listening to records of Camelot, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, and Romeo & Juliet. When she was able to, she took us to a symphony or opera. It was so much fun to get dressed up (as people used to do) and go to the symphony. She read to us always and in the usual parental fashion of tolerating multiple readings of my favorites books such as I Wish I Had Duck Feet. We had a set of Time-Life books on history with beautiful pictures which we studied laboriously and dreamed of stories about the castles, Charlemagne, and knights. We had a giant world atlas and were fascinated by the maps, wondering what it was like in all those places. Mom taught us a certain level of sophistication and culture which I treasure. The desire to see and learn was reinforced by her. We had opportunities to travel and go on little adventures. We went on vacations to the beach, which I know were a struggle for her. After she and my step-father married, the four of us took a road trip to Portland, Oregon, to see Walter's parents. We crowded into a little Toyota Corona, a suitcase between me and my sister in the backseat, and drove from Houston to Portland and back. Adventures!
Sometimes I was a little afraid of her sternness when we were in trouble. We knew we were sunk as soon as she paused and licked her lips. It's still the tell-tale sign. Mom and Katharine used to fight a lot when we were young and I remember one time when Katharine declared she was going to run away. Watching from my bedroom door, I remember Mom licking her lips and saying, "Then let me get your suitcase for you." Katharine defiantly packed something in it and walked out the front door. To be honest, it scared the hell out of me because I thought she was really leaving! I was probably 6 and Katharine 8 at the time. Of course, Mom knew what she was doing. When she walked out the door, Katharine marched promptly over to the driveway and sat there until she finally decided to come back in. It seemed like hours to me, but it was probably about 20 minutes. Every time they fought though, I was a little afraid that Katharine would leave, like my dad had left. I tried to keep everybody happy. Perfect time to make a cup of tea for Mom. Mind you, I wasn't a perfect angel myself. There was a time when I was in elementary school and a member of the Girl Scouts. I loved being in Brownies, but Girl Scouts wasn't the same, so I started skipping those meetings and going over to my friend Kendall's house to listen to Carly Simon and John Denver records instead. I was always home on time and figured it shouldn't really matter, but deep down knew I wasn't where I was supposed to be. So one night at dinner, Katharine says, "Where were you at Girl Scouts today? I didn't see you there." She had gone with a friend to help, but I wasn't there. I immediately got the "look" from Mom and then gave the most stupid answer possible, "I guess I was just on the other side of the room" That did it. I was ordered to my room, got a spanking, and then she told me about how frightening it was for me not to be where I was supposed to be, and then she told me that Girl Scouts was something she had to pay for and it wasn't easy. I earned that spanking. Then there was the time when I was a senior in high school and on one of our college tour days, a bunch of us went to the French Quarter instead of going to LSU for the day. When I got home, she was sitting on the living room sofa drinking a cup of tea, and looking down, she calmly asked how LSU was; I said it was fine. She licked her lips and told me to go get in the car. She drove me back up to school and turned me in for skipping out. I got 3 days of detention. I earned that detention.
I understand that true parental love is unconditional, as I know my mother's has been for me. However, it is my nature to doubt myself. In so many ways, Mom taught me to be a strong, independent woman. I have to laugh when I think about my ex-husband saying to me that one of the worst things my mother did was to raise me to be so "independent!", like that was a bad thing. Thank you, Mom! I'll be completely honest here though and confess that for much of my life I felt that I fell short of pleasing her. We have many differences of personality and I have a fair bit of my father in me too. As I grew older, I made fewer cups of tea for Mom. In that natural way of the teenager and young adult, I was focused on my own world, my own problems, and trying to muddle through my declining marriage while raising two boys of my own. I worried about disappointing Mom by not keeping my house "clean enough," by not going into a profession where I could be more successful and self-reliant, by not handling money well, but failing at marriage, by not disciplining my kids as she would have done, by having a child who became a drug addict and went to prison, and by raising another child who didn't get in trouble, but enormously NOT independent as she had raised me to be. Through all of that though, even though I so often felt like a disappointment, she was there, loving me all the way through and telling me she was proud of me. Eventually, I started letting go of my insecurities and believed her. Unconditional love is a grace and a blessing and I wouldn't have survived without it.
Now here we are in a different stage of life. Mom went on hospice care a couple of months ago and I've tried to make more frequent visits to spend time with her. On one visit, she asked me to make a cup of tea for her. In the years since I was a child, her tea routine has become considerably more elaborate. As I headed toward the kitchen, Mom asked if I knew the routine. I asked her to remind me. Now it involves more steps and greater precision. As I fixed her tea that day, I felt sad thinking of the old days when I could make her happy with the simple gesture. Now I felt inadequate and worried terribly that I didn't have it just right. She deserved to have it just right. I don't think I was fully successful, but she thanked me and drank it anyway, smiling. Since then, tea doesn't taste very good to her anymore. It's a clear sign of the changes coming. I wish I liked tea. I wish I liked it and someone would bring me a cup to make me feel better. I'm sad, terribly sad. I'm not ready to lose my mother. I want more time. I want more time to tell her how much I love her, how much I appreciate her, and how thankful I am that she is my mother. I've long since figured out the great secret of life, that our parents aren't perfect and don't really have all the answers, that they are flawed humans just like the rest of us. It allows us to see beyond the role of parent and into what else they're made of. My mom has devoted her life to Christ and spreading that love to all she encounters. I've watched her be the "strong friend" to countless people when needed. I've seen her open her home and her heart to others. I've watched her teach about spiritual direction and even begin a school for others to spread the calling. I'm so proud of her, all that she's done, and all that she's been to others. I'm proud of her for being an excellent writer and even writing a couple of novels, even if they haven't (yet) been published. I love my mom. I don't have much time left. I can't possibly say everything I want to say, express everything I feel. My step-father passed away nine years ago, my dad two years ago, and now I'm losing my constant magnetic north. My sister and I will be left with the gifts of life she gave us, and with each other. I'm so glad to have my sister in this last part of the journey of Mom's life. We have been so fortunate. Maybe I'll make Katharine a cup of tea to make her feel better. We'll make our new lives without parents, but Mom will always be with us. She has been a good mother. She has been a loving grandmother. She has lived a good life. I know she has unfulfilled dreams which are now put aside, but she treasures the life she's had. She is weary, but feels joy about her life. I suppose ultimately, you can't really ask for more. There's not much to do to make her happy anymore besides just being there. It's frustrating not to be able to do more, not to be able to do something. I have to just let it happen. All I can do is tell her how much I love her . . . . and, if she decides one would taste good, I'll make her a cup of tea. I love you, Mom.
