August 1

August 1....my stepson Joseph's birthday.......our Miss Ruby's birthday.....and my mother's birthday. Odd that three such integral and important people in my life shared the same birthday.

I have told my dad and my sisters that my "mother blogs" will be happier now, not the tear jerkers of a year ago. But my mother's birthday....her day....August 1 continues to bring me overwhelming feelings of love and loss and what might have been and worst of all what was.

Caught amidst scattered remembrances of her laughing so hard she cried.....Drew once commented, "Grandmommy smiles so hard she squints" (isn't that a great phrase; good job, Drew)..... I am haunted by remembrances of my mother's final cries to go home, upstairs, to her bed.

But then, I also remember at 16 years old, those teen years when I know I so often disappointed her, looking out from the stage where I had won a hometown high school pageant. The pride and excitement in my mother's face were such that one might have thought I had just been crowned Miss Universe. I guess mothers are like that, right?

Mother had a weak stomach and often when the issues to be dealt with were of the sick children variety, it was Daddy who got the duty call. It was indeed fortunate that my mom was blessed with the physician husband who had seen it all before. But, I recall when so nauseated during my labor with Drew that I couldn't hold my head up, it was Mother there beside my hospital bed, holding my hand while Daddy, my OB-GYN, and even Adrian checked a ballgame score on tv. Note to Dee....I am glad I remembered that one......another blog for another day.

From decades back, I vividly remember Mother's agony as she shared with me the horrifying news that she had accidentally backed over and killed my sweet English Setter Scamp. I remember with equal agony how completely unforgiving I was as we sat at the little round table in the close confines of her Garden City condo and she broke the news to me.

More recently, I and my sisters will recall a Christmas gift of a "fake fur" jacket to my mother. Remember those? And the way she reacted, you might have thought it was mink. Mother broke into one of those squinty smiles Drew had noticed and happily modeled the Target .....that's Targe' of course....coat for us all.

Pastor Joel spoke of prisms during Mother's funeral services. I think again of that description as I have so many times since. My mother's strength, stubborness if you will, versus her weakness and frequent dependence on my dad......my mother's love of clothes and shoes and fashion but the cruel irony of her later near inability to dress in anything other than sweatsuits.......my mother's frequent tardiness but her arrival at Matt's graduation a full hour early.....my mother's sedentary life and yet her childhood chore of watering turkeys (ongoing apologies to my mom that I was so sure in her confusion she had somehow inexplicably inserted herself into an episode of "Little House on the Prarie")....my mother's seeming few friends..... yet her impassioned love of those she had....my mother's unending correction of my/our grammar....my doing the same with my children today.....my mother's oft evident disdain for the kitchen.....mine today.....my mother's fierce devotion to her family.....my lioness like protection of my children.....my mother's love of Clemson and football....my hopes that Drew will attend or even play there.

When did the torch pass? When did I absorb so much of my mom? Why is that suddenly less bad than I once thought it would be? Instead of rebuking the piles of newspapers in her den that drove us all crazy, I now think of how voraciously she read and how much she absorbed of two newspaper publications and numerous magazines every day. I remember the maddening two and a half hour meals because she ate so interminably slowly, but now my wish would be for just one more dinner that might last who knows or who cares how long.

Sunday afternoon I sent Kate off for a few days with Diane. Likely my precious daughter and this one of my beautiful and beloved sisters will be together this Wednesday when Diane's and my mother's, Kate's grandmother's, birthday rolls around. Perhaps this daughter and granddaughter can share an August 1 story, a memory, a laugh, a tear, a "Patism."

We are still missing you, Mother.....still figuring it all out with you gone. But it is getting better. I stood alone for a moment at your grave on Sunday. I know my sisters and our dad had been there earlier, but this was my minute, our minute, yours and mine......our moment in time. Diane, Donna, and I think of you all the time, but never quite so much as on August 1.

Photo by Frank Mottek. A quick post script, I chose this photo for my post, then noticed yesterday, August 1, 2012 there was a full moon. Happy Birthday, Mother.....

Catfish and White Chocolate

I have blogged before that I find nicknames fascinating and fun. My feelings about nicks versus propers have definitely evolved. In my earlier years I always said that I would never want my children to have nicknames. I thought their given names should be the names they were called. Why go through the stress, time and trouble of choosing the perfect name only to use a different one I thought? But, as they.....whoever they are....always say and as fate would have it, you can never say never. Alas, both my children are called nearly exclusively by their nicknames. And I have come to think there is something about a nickname that says you have arrived. So many iconic sports figures had the great nickname to complement their game. Great generals, world leaders, CEO's so often sport befitting nicknames. The beguilingly beautiful Kate Middleton now taking the world by storm has seemingly embraced a nickname. Even our newly adopted pup Audrey aka Batgirl, Wonder Woman, W is now, courtesy of our 21 month old grandson, Aubeeeeeee. She has 'dee'finitely arrived.

Yesterday, Drew and I watched new Today show cohost Savannah Guthrie proudly report on her brother's Green Mountain Boys air national guard unit. In addition to the famous nickname of their group as a whole, all the flyers had individual nicknames, some decidedly less than flattering. Let's see, there were Catfish, Pooter, and Booger.....shall I continue? My very quick son very quickly said, "Ooh, I would want Catfish." Good choice, My Little Man, considering the other alternatives.

This week at our local high school mini football camp for youth, Drew was dubbed "White Chocolate." White Chocolate..... I've had to think about that. He is definitely sweet enough is my precious boy. We are often complimented on his polite mannrs and respectful attitude. And, isn't it true that there is no nicer compliment for parents than to hear their child's manners are what they should be. But White Chocolate ? What does this mean? Fast, runny, slow, goopy? Aromatic.....Drew does have a decidedly boy odor at times. I might call it odiferous rather than aromatic. Thick.....I believe anyone who knows my super slim Drew would find that a definite misnomer. Gritty.....now there's one I hope Drew is or will be. Smooth.....he certainly can be. Melty.....I think not. They called Walter Peyton "Sweetness." Is that where Coach was headed? Are we talking here about Drew's moves or his personality or perhaps both?

Lancaster's legendary African American football coach Bennie McMurray thinks my son is White Chocolate. Wonder how he would have felt about Catfish?

Mamma Mia Mayhem

So my fourteen year old daughter is definitely looking nineteen these days.....not a good situation from any point of view. Saturday, a new twist. She and I were walking through South Park, the mall of choice (her choice, that is) in nearby Charlotte. A kiosk operator shouted and motioned in our direction, as he called, "Sisters, come on over. I have something you will love." Kate was mortified and nearly ran past the smiling.... then not so much .... kiosker. Once I managed to catch up, I asked my oh so sensitive, not to mention still quickly moving, daughter what was the problem. "Momma," she said, "I can't believe he thought we were sisters. That makes me so mad." "Why?" I asked. "I should think you would be pleased, maybe even proud if someone thought you and I were sisters. Wouldn't you like to think you had a younger looking mom?"

Kate hesitated, then said, " Well if they think you are my sister that might be okay. But if they think I am your sister....that would be horrible." What did she say? My Junior Beta Club President, AP Honor Student daughter (ummm except perhaps in algebra), certainly you might think in line for the "words gene", sometimes has trouble putting an even remotely logical thought together. But after continued and determined query we finally understood each other. If I look young enough to be her sis, that is okay. But if she looks old enough to be mine, that in her mind is another and totally different matter altogether.

At Kate's high school orientation night last spring, a Lancaster High School assistant principal asked Kate if I were her sister. Kate decided then and there she should attend Indianland High...or AJ....or Buford....anywhere but Lancaster.

I sympathize with Kate's conundrum. It is hard to be a barely teen caught in a college coed body. I think I was in a similar predicament, although with me it was not so much the body that looked older than my age, it was my face. I was often in my high school years mistaken for an older girl. Kate is finding, as I did, that can be a blessing and just as easily a curse.

What I didn't tell Kate was that the kiosk person wanted to sell something and the assistant principal was trying to score points with a prospective parent. She wouldn't have wanted to listen anyway. Her humiliation was total and complete. Someone said she and her mother looked like sisters. The motivation didn't matter. That they simply dared to publicly utter the words was more than enough devastation for my teen daughter.

The trouble is I am not sure who is having the greater identity crisis in this symbiotic mom and daughter thing. Kate tells me on the one hand, as in when she wants her nose or belly button or ear cartilage pierced, that I should be more cool, more hip. But, on the other hand, if I look kind of...well, sort of.... with it, that is totally unacceptable to her.

So, as my teen and I continue to navigate the often treacherous waters of a mother/teen daughter relationship, I find myself wondering not so much who she will become, but who I at the moment am. Funny, I thought I had this figured out years ago.....