I had a dream about my mom this week. She was standing on the front porch of my parents’ former home and I was behind the screen of the front door looking at her. She was dressed up and looked beautiful. I told her I wanted to open the door to hug her but I was afraid she would disappear. She said, “No, I won’t.” So, I opened the screen and walked to her. We had a long, tight, emotional hug, and then I must have awakened. I haven’t been able to hug her since 1992, and feeling that lingering embrace again felt so real and so good.
I think she’s been on my mind because one of my stories about her got picked by Writer’s Read in NYC, which means I’ll be going to New York to read it in front of a crowd on Saturday, May 13th. If you live in NYC or are visiting, I would be honored to have you join us. Here’s a link to buy tickets: https://bit.ly/3Azw5Xg
(Please pardon my blatant self-promotion.) The story is about me being a snotty teenager, embarrassed by my mom and not wanting her to come to Mother-Daughter night sponsored by the Girls Athletic Association. (I’m pasting the story below, in case you’ve never seen it.)
Then I had my “Mom” Epiphany, brought on by guilt over being such a jerk, my mother’s unwavering love, and her absolutely delicious pizza. She and I started a new chapter after that moment.
Maybe it was my frontal lobe finally starting to mature and develop after a thorough thumping from the universe, which I so richly deserved. I’m glad it happened in time for me to appreciate her for who she was for the remainder of our years together. Thanks frontal lobe!
All I can say on Mother’s Day is, if you’re lucky enough to still have your mom around, please put your arms around her, give her a hug, and tell her she what she means to you. Better yet, do that AND write out how you feel in a lovely note to her. It’s all any mom really wants. (I hope my kids are reading this!)
And to all you moms, step-moms, grandmothers, and dads who’ve had to be moms too, I wish you a Happy Mother’s Day filled with appreciation, love, and some fine quality chocolate. Mom’s Powerful Pizza Recipe is after the story.
The Power of Love and Pizza
When I was a teenager in the 1970s, the combination of my mom’s thick Italian accent, lack of education, 1940s hairstyle, booming voice, and obesity made me cringe when friends were around. So, I did not want my mom to attend Mother-Daughter Night, sponsored by the Girls Athletic Association.
I said something snotty like: “Oh girls and their moms will be in the gym. They’ll be running around in shorts, playing volleyball and basketball. I don’t know what you’d do there, but you can come if you want.”
She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. “You don’t a want a me dare. I’ll a look a like a big a buffalo wit all a dose a skinny mothers.” With resignation and attempted cheer, she added, “Its a OK honey, you go without a me. Have a good a time a.”
A good daughter would have felt terrible, but I was relieved. I knew she wouldn’t be able to play like the other mothers. And I didn’t want everyone knowing my mom was more like everyone’s grandmother. Plus, she was always telling people how wonderful I was and I was afraid people would laugh at us.
So, my mom stayed home and I went to GAA night with my best friend Carolyn, her young, thin mother, and a little something my mom sent.
All night, I watched mothers in blue jeans and shorts leaping acrobatically as they played volleyball. While I played, my self-absorbed, teenage brain kept thinking, why can’t my mother be cool like this? Why did she have to wait until she was forty-two to have me? Why does she have to be overweight, and why does she still have that dumb accent? I felt low and alone all night. Then it was time to eat.
The little something my mom sent was two pizzas the size of large cookie sheets. She’d baked them the day before and they became her ambassadors.
After we played, we settled in the gym bleachers for snacks. I brought out the pizzas my mother carefully wrapped in aluminum foil. I checked them for weird ingredients because occasionally I’d come home, smell something good and garlicky, open the oven door and recoil at the sight of a split head of a goat sizzling away. Since mom never wasted anything, I had to make sure she hadn’t slipped a goaty surprise into a pizza.
They checked out, I sliced them, passed them around and waited, hoping people liked them. Things were quiet, then I heard whispers. Mothers, daughters, even the gym teacher started asking about the pizza…who brought it, who made it, and where could they get more? They raved about it, telling me how lucky I was. They said none of them ever got delicious homemade pizza like this.
In minutes, my mother became the most famous mother in GAA history without touching a volleyball. With the oohhh’s and aaahhhs echoing through the gym, you’d have thought these people had never tasted pizza.
I went from feeling like a pathetic orphan, to the luckiest teenager in New Brighton. And the pizza wasn’t even hot. It was cold, day-old pizza.
Later I sat alone in the bleachers staring at the brightly lit gym floor and felt ashamed. I felt guilty for all the times I’d wished my mom had been someone cooler, normal and American, who didn’t roast goat heads.
Then, I made a vow. I’ll never resent my mother for who she is and what she doesn’t do. She does something just as important as the “normal” moms, she’s simply in a different talent category.
When I got home and told her everyone loved her pizza and how lucky they said I was, she was beaming. We started a new chapter.
Anything that can change a teenage mind deserves props. Never underestimate the power of love…or pizza.
Mom’s Powerful Pizza
[cooked-recipe id=”21663″]