On Mother's Day

On this, the year of my mother's 80th birthday, I've realized she is still stronger than I am; stronger than I may ever be. I can barely keep up with her.

My mother married the boy who would later become my father when she was just 23 and he a mere 19. They had my brother just a few years later; really just children themselves. My parents came to this country from Croatia via Germany when my brother was almost 12 years old making my mother 37. I could not imagine picking up and leaving everything I knew to move to an unknown country where I couldn't speak the language and knew only a handful of people.

Talk about courage. 

She hated it upon arrival. Like really hated it.

She always said their first goal was to save enough money to go back home.

It never happened.

Slowly but surely, they came to love their new country. The opportunities they had here would never have been available to them otherwise.

Coolest picture ever. Coolest pants ever. And apparently, a sale on white travel bags. 

My older brother Brian, a bubble and me in mama's belly

She was dreadfully sick with her first pregnancy twelve years earlier and hadn't planned on more children.

She had some kind of throat thing going on and oddly, the doctor recommended getting pregnant, saying that the change in hormones might help. Obviously, it didn't.

But here I am.

I inherited morning sickness from her. I, too, was ridiculously sick with each pregnancy. She would always tell me that she held half a grapefruit up to her face through most of the day to ward off that awful taste. If you experienced all day morning sickness, you know exactly what I mean. I never truly understood what she had gone through until I was pregnant myself.

My mom always worked. And kept the cleanest house known to man. Still does.

She irons jeans. Yup. She does.

But when I was born, she insisted on staying home. She had just been through too much in the years that she left my older brother with her own parents, while she and my father worked in Germany.

She walked me to school every day. I remember all of the other kids loving her. 

She was that mom.The one all of the kids loved. She still has that quality.

As I got older, I remember thinking she was so much older than the other moms.

And cooler. Way cooler.

I was bullied something awful in 5th grade.

And made myself physically sick because of it.

She knew something was up. Not sure how I ended up in a psychiatrist's office but I did; finally confessing the truth.

The very next day she marched right up to my bully.

You do not want to know what happened next. 

I was in a new school the following day.

There was no messing with me. Or more importantly, with my mama.

In the years that followed, we traveled to Europe yearly to spend summers with my maternal grandmother. This was my mom's only wish...to visit her own mom every year. So we went. Every year.

Life there was simple. 

Our time spent in a rustic house in a very small town.

It taught me a lot about what's important.

And to appreciate running water and an inside toilet. Totally separate story.

But know that I peed with chickens watching. Yes, yes I did.

My mom loves knitting, crocheting, cats and the cottage.

Not necessarily in that order.

And cooking. Or rather, feeding people.

She likes that a lot.

"Just eat" is her infamous slogan.

And feed you she will. Anytime. Anywhere.

It took me a lot of years to appreciate my mother.

She made me crazy on more than one occasion and I am sure I did the same to her.

But she is one of my favorite people.

The thought of losing her makes me cry instantaneously.

Mama the fashionista on the left, me with a goofy grin in Croatia in '81.

I love you mama.

Happy Mother's Day.