Who’s left to be your home base when your parents pass? I know, WE are. But there was something so comforting in going home to Mom’s and having her hand you an aspirin if your head hurt when you were visiting from college. Or how Mom would always watch her grandchild if you needed to run out. Mom even loved watching my dog when my kid moved. Kid, dog they were always welcomed and always loved.
I was always loved and welcomed too. OK, I’m not the favorite grandchild who lived up the street and was easily coerced by a treat or snack. But truth be told, I was ALSO easily bribed. My favorite place in the world to shop was definitely in my mother’s closet. I called it shopping at Goodmans. The clothes were smashing and the price was right, nothing!! And we’re talking about gorgeous designer clothes like Escada, Armani and Ralph Lauren. I loved trying them on. Mom was SO generous in letting me swipe pieces. No question, my best stuff came from Goodmans.
But Mom had boobs and hips, a perfect hourglass figure. Me? I always had baggie armpits in her clothes where the breasts were supposed to be. My boobs are adorable, still up, yet little. Mom’s were rockstar.
The only thing that pissed me off were her feet. Her shoes were my size but she had a narrow foot. I can still see all those Cole Hahn shoes tempting me. I felt like the wicked stepsisters in Cinderella, constantly trying to jam my bigger feet into a slipper that it would never fit. OK Mom, your shoes were safe but all the rest was open for ogling over.
Mom’s idea of paradise was for us to come over on Sunday night’s for dinner. I was to bring my 2.3 children, or whatever the family average for having children was at the time. But Mom never cooked on Sundays, even in her hay-day.
I thought Jewish mothers never cooked on Sunday nights. I thought it was a rule or something. My Mom cooked all the time but Sunday night was eat out night, she was off, on strike or just not cooking. We had Deli, Italian, Chinese, you name it and it was all yummy! I really thought all Jewish Mothers did that. Actually growing up on Long Island, I also thought everyone was Jewish. I only knew one person who wasn’t, Mario Mondelli, my token Catholic friend. We were pals and he was the only person I ever knew who had a Christmas tree. Except of course, much to my Mother’s chagrin, my Aunt.
“Go Figure!” My mother would exclaim. “Joan’s kid’s grow up with a Christmas tree and both marry Jews. I build hospitals in Israel and not one of my children marries a Jew.” I remember when I was going to move in with my boyfriend, later to be my first husband and my son’s father. I called Mom to tell her and she said, “No problem. Go out with him, move in with him, but don’t marry him.” And she liked David, but his last name wasn’t Goldberg or Klein.
My current husband won her over early. Stewart, no Jewish name there, got up after Thanksgiving dinner and did the dishes. My Mom’s mouth fell open. Mom leaned over to me while she was staring at him in total shock and said, “He’s a keeper!” She had never seen a Jewish husband do the dishes, never mind on a holiday. Good job Babe!!
What about when your Mom, or home base, is not around anymore? It feels weird. First I felt unsettled, like I had no foundation. But really, I still feel her as my home base, no matter where she is. In reality, I’ve been morning my Mom for years. She got sick and just let the nurse take care of everything for her.
My Stepdad Norman Goodman (is that a Jewish name or what?! Mom always followed the rules) was so worried he just wanted her to stay quiet in her room, like that was going to do anything. I knew it was the beginning of the end.
Money meant move. After Norman passed, Mom’s finances dictated we needed to sell her house and find assisted living. The house and 24-hour-in-home-care would have her out of money in 3 years.
Have no fear, we found a GREAT place. It was a snazzy house called Agape Senior Living of Scottsdale. I told Mom she always wanted a fancy house in Scottsdale and now she only had to buy a room. “Very funny Margaret.” She said with full sarcasm. I’ve heard that a lot over the years.
Daniela and David run the place and I knew if anyone could get her to use her muscles and not just stow away in her room, they would. In a beautiful house with only 10 tenants, Mom can’t hide and send everyone away hoping to be forgotten, nope.
I had moved 2 years earlier when Mom had stopped trying to take care of herself. I could see her giving up.
Over the years she got frail and a stroke took her right side and most of her speech. “Ma, I can’t imagine how hard it is for a Jewish woman with plenty to say, to not be able to say it. Oh, that’s tough. But I feel you and you are always talking to me and telling me what to do.”
She would smile but she was clearly not the breathtaking stylish woman anymore who had helped build the Children’s Medical Center at Long Island Jewish Hospital, so other families didn’t have to shelp to Boston like she did to help an ailing child so they could see specialists. My Mom took her pain and changed the world. She was on the Board of Directors and cooked tons of meatballs in our kitchen for fundraisers. I’ll never forget her teaching me how to roll out rugula with raspberry jam and pistachio nuts. Mom was always having to remind me NOT to eat them all. YUM!!
When Mom moved from Long Island to Phoenix, her cooking stopped. She did the occasional Thanksgiving, but one day she declared the kitchen was closed and Marcia Goodman was done with the pots and pans, she was eating out.
Every time I think about my not cooking, letting my hair color go gray, not wearing makeup or living in my glasses, you name it; I think of my Mom. Mom used to say, “Margaret...” She always used my birth name when she wanted to get my attention. As a kid Mom would shout and call me different versions of my name depending on the urgency. “Mag, Maggie, Margaret” And if you ever heard “Margaret Emily” you were really in trouble.
I can hear her now. “Margaret, eat macaroni and cheese but get your hair done.” She felt I would feel better if I didn’t scrimp on taking care of myself. I could take care of all the rest I needed to, if I felt good about myself. OK Mom, I’m listening and you’re still right.
Your words still ring in my head and in my heart. I still use your words in my stand up routines and in my life. Thank you Mom. Thank you for being the greatest Mom ever and a role model for having our lives make a difference for those around us and the planet. I always have a home base with you because you’re in me.