Mommy…

Mommy. Not mom, momma, mother or ma. Just mommy. She’s been on my mind a lot lately. Maybe it’s because the older I get the more I become her. I open my mouth and literally her words come out. Which, I guess means I’ve come full circle, considering when I was a kid I would answer the phone in our house and people would literally say, “Joyce?” This was always met with “sigh… not this is Kevin.” They would always follow up with “I thought it was your mother, hahaha. Wow you sound just like her.” Umm…Thank you? I’m sure you can imagine the mind trip I was starting to have as an 11 year old hearing this over and over. Yet, here I am, almost 45 and I’m sounding just like her with the way I say and phrase things. Today, I’m dedicating this post to her. Here is something I wrote just a few months after she died.

Mommy

My mommy died. She was smart, kind, funny, nosey(she could’ve worked for the FBI), intuitive, many, many, many times infuriating, sometimes judgey (a lot), and could give a look that could stop a locomotive on its tracks. My best friend Rich describes me to others in this way, “My friend Kevin can say more with one raised eyebrow than others can using a thousand words.” I come by it very easily.

Mommy grew up in the Bronx and my father in Brooklyn. They met at a party, dated, and got married. They celebrated 59 yrs of marriage together until her death in Ormond Beach, FL. My father is heartbroken as is the rest of my family.

I’m the baby of 4 boys. I was a total mommy’s boy growing up. Shown by the fact that at 43 yrs old I still called her mommy. Where my brothers had grown to call her ma. She and I had what could be described as typical mother/gay son relationship even though my coming as gay was what ultimately made us grow apart. But when I was little, wherever she was, I wasn’t far behind. From the doctor’s office, to the beauty parlor there I was just waiting patiently often times reading a book and watching people.

When I was in middle school and would go shopping with her, the ladies in the store would giggle when mommy came out of the the dressing room and I would make the “there is no way I’m letting you walk out here with that awful outfit” face and then would go through the racks and pick out several other much more suitable options for her and send her back to the dressing room.

She’s the reason for my love of musicals(her favorite was ‘Singing In The Rain’), old movies, all things about New York, Judy Garland, and Barbra Streisand. There’s a song called ‘Guilty’…a duet between Barbra and Barry Gibb of the ‘Bee Gees.’ We used to sing along together in her charcoal gray ’84 Ford Thunderbird (she LOVED that car). She sang along with Barbra and me along with Barry (secretly wishing I could sing the Barbra part).

In my teens and early 20’s, I would come home after a night out with my friends and immediately head straight to her bedroom. I would lay across the foot of the bed and recount every detail of what happened, especially if there was any drama between my other friends. She would give her opinion and any advice if I needed it. She loved it. Hell, I loved it. What gay boy didn’t love gossiping with his mother. Can’t get much gayer than that.

For most of my adult life she and I were more often at odds than not. The woman knew how to push internal buttons and could play your emotions like a piano. Because of religion and simply being from an older more conservative generation, she couldn’t totally get past me being gay. Thirteen years after my coming out she still’d ask if a recent date I went on, had been with a girl. Talk about being stubborn (that’s where I get from).

Gradually we grew apart. No more shopping. No more singing duets and watching musicals. No more gossiping. More importantly , the closeness we once had was gone. Gradually over time I pushed her away to avoid the guilt trips.

During the remaining 10 years of her life, her health was on a steady decline. It remained in the back of my head during every decision I made. Should I move back to the west coast and be that far away? Could I move abroad with her health being like it is? Sometimes thinking about our relationship, or lack there of, was down right stifling.

One thing mommy never gave up on, was speaking her mind. In fact, while visiting her in the hospital two weeks before she died, she asked me to get her some water. As I walked away to the sink she said in her usual matter of a fact way, “you have a big butt. And you need to pull your shorts out of your crack.” I walked behind the hospital curtain so she couldn’t see just how annoyed I was, rolled my eyes, and of course pulled my shorts out of my crack.

I was able to say my goodbye to mommy during the last week she was alive. I rubbed her arm as she laid comatose in the hospice unit. It was then that I realized that for most of my adult life she had been in ever worsening chronic pain. So severe that even when she slept you could still see the pain on her face. In the last moments of her life, she looked peaceful and not in pain. I am choosing to remember that moment; even though, I silently wished she would pick a fight with me.

In the weeks since her passing, I began wondering how soon I would forget her face, her voice, and everything else about her. But she’s been on my mind just about everyday since the day she died. Just about every conversation I have with someone makes me think of something she had said or done.

Then, a few weeks ago, a picture was taken at a bridal shower I attended and posted on Facebook. I was in the background of the picture, notably not the focus of the picture. But, there was a look on my face that was distinctly a look that mommy would have given. Growing up I’d seen that very look many times from across a crowded room as she was sitting and silently watching (and probably judging) everything happening.

I took a screen shot and sent it to my friend Rich with a caption, “if you wanted a perfect example of what my mother was like, this picture says it all.” He replied with “LOL! This is perfect!”

I realized that I will never forget her. She is so much a part of who I am. My looks, my mannerisms, my voice, and my humor. All I have to do is look and the mirror and there she is. My mommy is gone but will never be forgotten.

As I continue on my journey of discovering the world, each new place and adventure I encounter is met with the same thought. Mommy would love this.

Until next time….

Mommy’s Boy