Mothers Day, 2007
May 13, 2007

I had a great Mom.  All this spring, the card racks and sales inserts taunt me with the reminder that I cannot give my mom a call, a card or a hug.  I am not the type to visit a grave and leave a floral tribute.  I love my Mom; I miss her.

They say you never really appreciate your mother fully until you have your own kids.  Well, I always appreciated Mom, though I was not too adept at showing it every day.  The six Joliat kids had a Mom who was stranded for a decade of their youth without a car to escape in. Her castle had a drawbridge, so to speak.  She would get up at 6:30, make hot cereal for our breakfasts, slap together 6 custom ordered lunches (I can still NOT believe I made her put lettuce on my peanut butter sandwich so it would not stick to my mouth), push us out the door, and then start her day of domestic service.  After the kitchen was restored, she would do loads of wash, whatever ironing was piled up, cleaning, and then she would begin planning her dinner.  More than that, she would get out the old Sunbeam mixer, and whip up a cake or a gross of cookies.  If she was pressed for time, there might be pudding with frozen berries for dinner dessert. She developed a real talent for cinnamon rolls, coffee cakes and pecan rolls as we grew older, and we encouraged these efforts profusely.  There was rarely a day when we returned home without lifting her silver cake dome, or pulling off the cookie jar lid. Dinner was never a gourmet affair- with 8 mouths to feed, potatoes were the extender, and meat was petite.  But the Joliats were clean plate club members, because there was always dessert. 

For our part, of course, we craved Oreos and bakery cakes, and I expect we were oblivious enough to ask for these.  I am sure it was like a dagger to her Betty Crocker soul.  Age brought her kids wisdom, and when my Mom was probably sick to death of boiling sugar for frosting, beating eggs for meringues, or tormenting bitter chocolate into hard fudge, we were sentimental enough to beg for just these things.  She always obliged.  My birthday cake of choice was a spice cake with a burnt brown sugar frosting, with chopped nuts embellishing the top.  The double devil’s food with fluffy white frosting was a close second.  No wonder I am fluffy, too.  The Crisco gene is within me. The baking gene, sad to say, is not.

It is not the desserts I miss, now that life has fast-forwarded me.  It is the heart and soul of my mom- a person who never put herself first once she started her family.  I can remember that she finally got a car- a white Valiant that was like a clown car with the 6 kids in it.  One day the engine caught fire on Smith Street.  She shooed us out of it, and we watched the innards melt through the engine to the street below.  She hoisted the baby, and we walked home. Having 6 kids in 9 years made Mom fairly unflappable.

We must have been unaware of how caged Mom felt, but we should have had clues.  Mom took to adult education classes- hat making, cake decorating, and decoupage.  We would tease her about her creations, and sometimes her tulle quotient was a little excessive at Mass.  It never occurred to us that she just needed a dot of time away from us, because she seemed so fulfilled with her home.

When Mom’s kids flew, she was sad- really sad.  She still plugged herself in to help out with Grandkids.  She still baked.  She flew to Chicago when I had post-partum moments; later, she brought her macular degenerated eyes to baby-sit her grandson so his parents could go to China and bring him a sister.  She never said no. But by mistake, she did not create a “second act” for herself.  She was lonely.  This too, was a lesson for me, and I have really tried to knit myself a community of support so that as the boys drift to new lives I do not live and die by their actions.  I do this in memory of my Mom. I am a nester, so it is not a native behavior.  This resolve has taken me to Spain and Italy, and my Baguette travel tribe will invade Prague and Vienna next March.  I will see these places for Mom, because she postponed her travels for us, and then her heart and eyes kept her home.  I will do these things for my boys, so that they will not have to worry about poor mom, sitting home alone.  Though Steve probably does not agree, I do it for him, because a woman with wings can bring more energy to the nest. 

So this weekend is a quiet one, with Steve singing away in Des Moines, and the boys going to the White Sox game.  Pat has sent a gift from LA.  I am hitting the movies with girlfriends, and we will after-glow with wine, fried shrimp and a DVD.  On Mother’s Day, my newspapers and morning coffee will occupy me, and I will enjoy the peace.  Maybe the Chicago Dahl Cabal will merge in the evening, maybe not.  I have my sweet memories of my babies, my boys, my men. I also have a rich family history to reflect back on, and to be thankful for. 

On this day, all of you will call your mom to say you love her.  My advice for you is to do it more often, and in as many ways as you can.  I wish I started earlier.  But for what it’s worth, I will say what I say every day of my life, now that I am wise enough to fling these words to the heavens.  I love you Mom. You were the Best Mom.  I miss you.