I'm a mama's girl, and I'm not ashamed. It helps when you have a mom like I do, because she makes it so easy to be one. As we grew up my 5 siblings and I fought over who she loved best, citing pretty convincing proof. The problem was, each of us had a compelling case. It wasn't until we were all adults that I think we all (with the exception of Matthew who still believes he's the ONE. We let him think this, it's just easier. If you know my brother, you know what I mean.) realized that Mom's love for each of us couldn't be ranked on a scale like that; she loves each of us differently.
I won't attempt to explain her relationship with any of my siblings, but I want to talk a little about her relationship with me. I'm my mom's baby girl. I think that there's something special about a mom's last girl, not to say that my mom's other girls aren't special to her, I just think that as I grew up she knew I was her last chance at girliness. Added to this is the fact that all three of my sisters left at once after my 9th grade year and Mom and I were out numbered and had to band together. Anyway, on to the reason for this post today.
My mom, dad, and Aunt LuAnn just went to Wyoming to spend some time with my grandma who at 98 years old has finally reached the point where she can no longer live on her own. To call my grandmother stubborn would be a vast understatement, and we all envisioned having to drag her bodily from her house as she spread-eagled the front door with her fingernails dug into the door frame. It didn't quite work out that way, as she ended up in the hospital with a terrible case of pneumonia and then my father tricked her into the long term care facility by telling her she was simply changing rooms. I know it sounds cruel, but if you knew my grandma, you'd understand the need for such devious trickery. Bless my father's evil genius.
This trip was to see Grandma and to dig through the vast amounts of "treasure" my grandmother has been compiling for the past 45 years: quite an undertaking. A few years ago my mom and I went to visit and saw what we could become if we didn't change. We were scared straight and each went right home and cleaned out a couple of closets. Anyway, my mom called each of us asking if any of us wanted the super special collection of limited edition Native American plates made by the Franklin Mint. Shockingly, she got no takers. She asked me, "Is there anything you want from Grandma's house?"
Whenever I think about my grandma's house, the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of my childhood come rushing back. My favorite room in the house was the front bedroom. It was the room I most often slept in when we visited as it's location just down the hall from my grandfather and his epic snoring made it less desirable than the rooms in the converted garage.
It was my mother's old room, and I loved to imagine her lying on the bed gossiping with her girlfriends, primping at the tiny, built in vanity my grandfather lovingly made for her, or picking out an outfit from the closet. Apparently when my grandfather built the house my 15 year old mother dreamt up a lavender and white color scheme, even making a bedspread in those very colors in her home ec class at school. My grandpa loved his Cargy Vee, but he couldn't resist a bargain. As a result, the entire house was painted with the garish colors of the bargain paint bin resulting in among other things, a flamingo pink living room. As horrible as that was, my mother had something even more devastating awaiting her. All she wanted were white walls, but as she ran into her room she was greeted with screaming neon yellow. She sobbed in agony, knowing that they would stay that color (my grandparents didn't have the money for new paint) forever.
They didn't. Some time between my mother's high school years and my birth my grandmother wallpapered the entire room in flocked floral wallpaper. As a child I loved to sit on the floor and pet the walls, amazed by the texture of the paper. The wallpaper at our house certainly didn't feel like this! When I shared this insight with my mother she responded with something like, "I should hope not!" It took me a long time to understand what she meant.
That wallpaper became a source of laughter and ridicule among my family members over the years, one more charmingly strange thing about my grandmother's house. Even when I knew I should hate that wallpaper, I just couldn't. I made fun along with the rest of my family, but each time I visited the house I'd sneak into the room and surreptitiously stroke the walls.
So, when my mother asked the question, "What do you want from Grandma's house?" I laughed and said, "I know I can't have it, but what I'd really like is a piece of that flocked wallpaper from your old bedroom." Silence on the other end stretched for a moment, followed by "Really?" We laughed about it and then I admitted my life-long love for the horrible wallpaper. I knew it would go no where. My mother isn't the type to go into her mother's house and willfully destroy anything. She's a rule follower and worrier (good thing I didn't inherit that! Ha!) and I didn't think any more about it.
When my mother called me and said, "I cut you a piece of that wallpaper," you could have bought me for a nickel(
I earlier posted a combination of two sayings. My sister corrected me and I'm now ashamed of myself. Ashamed forever.).She even sounded a little defiant when I questioned her about it, saying "You wanted a piece of that wallpaper, so I snuck into the room and cut you a piece from right near the window." I pictured her sneaking into that room armed with a pair of scissors and a mother's love, defacing her mother's home in order to get me a piece of wallpaper that she personally found hideous.
That's love baby. Love.
Who's the favorite NOW Matthew?
