When Mama Smiles

We didn't have much, growing up. But, somehow, my mother always made sure we had what we needed. When she could, she got what we wanted. Looking back, I'm amazed at all she did. I don't know how she did it. But she did.

I remember laughing when she pushed me on the swing, as high as I wanted to go. She was my super-hero the day she retrieved my favorite Barbie knock-off from a safety-netted pool. I don't know how the doll got in there. But I do remember Mama lying down across that net, her face a mask of determination as she stretched so so so far to reach my doll. That was my first-ever experience of tears of despair turning to joy.

She read to us, The Jungle Book, and every character had a different voice and personality. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was my favorite.

She turned Monday nights into parties with popcorn and chocolate while we watched The Little House on the Prairie. She let us stay up late one night to watch The Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman and then the TV went out, robbing us of the ending. She made up an ending for us, walking in biiiig strides across the living room while we laughed. I eventually saw the whole movie. Her version was better.

I remember the day we went shopping for my first-ever formal dress. I didn't think too much, then, about the things that might have been sacrificed to get me that dress. I have, though, in the years since. She knew, before I did, when we'd found just the right one.
What I remember more than anything, though, is Mama's smile. Even when things were bad in our lives, Mama's smile made it all feel better.

When I was a little girl, Mama came close to dying. When I saw her again, she was so frail. I looked at her, afraid to even touch her because she might not be real. And nothing would ever be the same. Then Mama smiled. And everything was better.

A few years ago, I came close to dying. My thoughts were all a rushing torrent of worry about what would happen to my family. In my mind, I saw Mama smile and I knew she would find a way to make things right for them all. The first thing I saw, when I woke, was my mother peeking at me through the window that looked in on my room. She lifted her hand in a tiny wave. And she smiled. What an amazing welcome back to the land of the living.

We live now as a big, happy extended family. Think of The Waltons only louder. There are arguments, now and then, and I wish there didn't have to be. But then, it's the loving each other that keeps us talking, even when the words are hard to say and to hear.

All the grandchildren call my mother 'Mammy,' not because she chose it, but because my son--the oldest--couldn't say 'Grammy' when he a baby. And so she will forever and ever be Mammy. Some of us spell it with an 'ie' on the end instead of the 'y.' Twenty-three years and we still haven't agreed on a spelling. But we know who she is.

This year, on Mother's Day, Mama's a hundred miles away, visiting my sister. But she'll be back soon. And it will be Mother's Day for us.

"I miss Mammy," my daughter said the other day.

"Me, too," I said.

"Yeah. She's got such a pretty smile."

The prettiest smile in all the world.

My daughter continued, "She makes me happy."

"Me, too."

We're the same, my daughter and me, waiting for Mammy to come home, because everything's always better when Mammy's a part of it. And I am so very grateful that my children know her, not as a far-off person who sends presents at Christmas, but as a living, breathing woman who loves them every day and who brightens their lives with her smile.

I thought, when I was young, my mother was magic.

Now I know she is. And not just for me. For all of us.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama.

We love you.