THANK GOD FOR MOMS

     I survived my two children’s toddler years, adolescence, and maturity into adulthood. Today is Saturday. As I spruced up home for the weekend, I remembered Saturday mornings growing up in a large family.

     My adolescence was fraught with angst brought on by my mother, AMD.   We six girls had to kiss a tacky ceramic version of the Blessed Virgin Mary every time we committed a venial sin such as calling each other bad names under our breath. I wonder to this day how I did not become a lesbian after being forced to kiss another woman so often. Please forgive me, God.
     
     AMD seldom cooked or cleaned. She worked just across the street from our home as bookkeeper and financial wizard for my dad’s business. Like a fairy godmother, she waved a magic wand over our house and home, and things got done.

     I chose to become very busy twirling my baton, marching with the band, playing my flute, bouncing basketballs, joining clubs, studying for tests, and dancing on the weekends hoping that my limited leisure time would free me from doing chores.

     Weekend nights were wild fun-pep rallies, football games, movies, and partying till late at night. The first time I dated, I returned home to find the front door locked in an era when no one ever locked doors. I rang the doorbell. AMD, feigning sleep, unlocked the door, hugged me so she could smell my breath, and bid me good night.

    Thinking how fortunate that she didn’t demand a litany of my activities, I flopped down on my bed in the front bedroom; the bed felt warm—yuk!  And thus began eight years of my mother taking nighttime naps in my personal space during my high school and college weekends so she could give me a breathalyzer, peer into my eyes, and assess the condition of my clothing.

    Worse, however, was AMD’s habit of waking us up at the crack of dawn on Saturday mornings. Carrying a large, round silver tray filled with pungent French coffee served in demitasse cups, she sauntered from one bedroom to another to stir awake her six girls so we could drag ourselves out of bed and begin the routine Saturday cleaning.

    After crawling to the bathroom, prying my eyes open, chewing gum, removing my clumped on mascara, and pretending to be pert, I waited for the mimeographed work list she doled out to each girl. Were we galley slaves?  Odalisques?

   Under each of our names were bulleted lists of chores to be completed. We  waxed floors, cleaned bathrooms, hung clothes on the outdoor clothesline, polished shoes for church, washed walls, changed bed linens, dusted furniture, washed and dried dishes, starched frilly layered underskirts, and  ironed dad’s uniforms on the huge professional ironer in the laundry room. When  our specific chores were completed, we were allowed the freedom to read or nap.

     AMD hired three domestics to help maintain our large family. Mrs. Bob cooked. Chriscola tended to our baby brother, and Telitherina, hired to supervise us worker drones, taught me how to sip Mogan David from a coffee cup  when AMD was coffee klatching at 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. on Saturdays. After perusing AMD’s chore list at 7 a.m. on Saturday mornings, wine did seem to soften the blow.

     As the first of AMD’s six girls, I was her prodigy. My fifth sister and girl number six, LT, arrived in my sophomore year of high school. By then, AMD, depleted of energy, begged wolves to raise her, let her fend for herself, and allowed her to stay out all night.