A Charmed Life

Who Was That Masked Mom?

Picture it...Sicily, 1987.  It's "Carnevale", Latin for "farewell to meat", better known as Mardi Gras.  A young girl is invited to her first costume party, and inexplicably decides to dress up as a roller-skating waitress.  Yes, that's a fifteen year-old me in the black shirt with white piping and paper cups taped to a tray.  Thank goodness our neighbor's floor was tile and not carpet.  Also, wearing roller skates kept me from having to do the thing that terrified me the most- dance!  I still don't know how to stop while skating (unless you count rolling towards the nearest wall with my arms outstretched), and I'm still scared to dance.

To my right is standing my otherwise debonair father.  My mother kitted him out as a Tunisian street vendor.  I should add that there is no ethnic slur intended here- in Sicily, at least when I lived there, the Arab Tunisians were their own culture and very different from the Italian citizens. Plus, I claim Tunisian ancestry through two of my great- great-grandparents on my dad's side.  That is apparently why my brothers and I have uncontrollably curly hair.  Actually, if you look closely, my dad's hair is gelled for the occasion to get it to curl more.  So yes, he's poking a little fun, but there's no offense meant.

The real laugh here is Mom's costume.  After coming up with ideas for outfits for my dad and siblings (I came up with that genius train wreck all by myself, thank you!), she was fresh out of inspiration.  So she decided to go as an accident victim.  She rounded up every Ace bandage in the house, fashioned a sling for her arm, threw a bathrobe over the whole thing and hobbled across the street to the neighbors' party on crutches.  The other women in the room, however, were wearing beautiful, elaborate costumes with fancy feathered masks. Talk about adding insult to injury!  But Mom was nothing if not a good sport, and I personally think her satin-accented mask adds some much-needed panache to her ensemble.  Although, it really clashes with the plaid bathrobe.

So, what are you doing for Mardi Gras? 

Are You My Mommy?

It's been almost a year now since I became a mother, and I have to say, it's tons more fun than I ever imagined it would be.  I feel like I've finally found something that I'm really, really good at.  I work at excelling at motherhood harder than I've ever worked at anything before, because I love her, and being a mom, so much.  I don't just feed her...I make her baby food myself, mostly organic.  I don't just talk to her...I say the words in two languages, and sign the ones I know at the same time.  I tend to be too shy to be silly in front of other adults, but with my daughter, I sing and dance all day long and make up the words.  (I keep thinking that Dave is going to plant a hidden camera somewhere so he can watch me from work and share the laugh!)  We have such a good time together, my Persephone and me.  I feel like I'm growing my own little bestest buddy.

But (and you knew there would be a "but"), something is missing.  Or to be more precise, someone.  Somebody who grew me into her own little bestest buddy herself.  I miss being a daughter.  My dad is still living, and I do love him very much, but between his Alzheimer's disease, our geographical distance, his poor hearing and his grieving process, I feel more like a parent to him than I do his child.  So it's just not the same. 

I was a good daughter.  I never forgot a birthday or a holiday.  I handmade my Christmas cards to my parents.  When i was younger and my mom was taking night classes to get her Master's degree, I would read her textbooks to her when she was too tired to see the text on the pages.  I proofread her thesis and even rewrote some of it for her.  When she got a horrible perm, I rushed home from work to fix her hair so she could go to work presentable the next morning.  I was always the one who'd run up and down the stairs to fetch stuff from the freezer while she cooked, and the one who would stem and chop the parsley because she hated to do it.  When I moved far away, I called two or three times a week.  Once my mom was diagnosed with cancer, I called every day, sometimes twice.  Dave and I got us webcams so I could show her my pregnant belly and she could show me her new wig.  We got camera phones, and I sent her baby pictures every day.  I won't say more, or I'll drench my keyboard...but I did try to be the best daughter I could.

And I miss it.  And I got to thinking...when someone is widowed, they grieve, and then they move one, and sometimes get lucky and find someone else to love.  And would-be mothers who have trouble starting their family often adopt children and find the joy of parenthood that way.  You know what they say, "somewhere out there is a child that needs you", and all that happy-crappy.  Well, what if out there, there's a mom that needs me?  Maybe a mom whose child is no longer living, or one with an ungrateful wretch of a daughter who never calls or brings the grandkids over to visit.  What about it, moms?  I'm sweet, friendly, educated, bilingual and a great cook, with a smart husband and an adorable daughter.  We already all eat our vegetables and keep our elbows off the table (for the most part).  Available for rides to the doctor's office, supermarket and pharmacy, in exchange for homemade cookies and handknitted sweaters.  You will get more phone calls and visits than any of your friends and make them totally green with envy.  You too can adopt this adorable family, for less than you spend on a cup of coffee...

Well, I can dream, can't I?  My mom would be rolling her eyes at me (like she always did!) if she could read this right now, but she lost her mom, too, so she would understand, and probably approve.  In the meantime, if I can't be a daughter anymore, at least I'm lucky to be a mom.  I hope to be half the mommy to Seph that my mom was to me.