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So, Bri tagged non-moms to blog about that one thing that made their mom a “Real Mom.” I’ve scanned through some of the posts that led to hers, I’ve read Sabine’s, and I’ve spent a goodly bit of time trying to pin down one thing that really defined my mom for me. The answer wasn’t what I thought I’d find.

Before I get into my mom, though, I have to start with my dad. Now, I love my father with a ferocity I don’t even understand sometimes. He’s a good, good man, and “passionate” is often his only setting, for better or for worse. He’s firm in his convictions- even when those convictions might be, in my mind, dead wrong. One of those things? Well, he’s racist. There’s no pussyfooting around that one- he is, and it is him, and nothing out there is ever going to change that.

Now- that being said- on to my mother’s story. As I’ve mentioned before, my mom was, for the most part, a passive lady. She had her limits, though:

1) Don’t cross her in business,
2) Don’t cross her religion,
3) Don’t cross her children.

The latter, of course, is where we’re going.

Mom married dad when she was 27. My sister was born when she was 30, I came along at 39 (quite the unexpected surprise). When I was about 17, my sister- by then a college graduate, educated, and enjoying the beginnings of a career in social work became pregnant and got married. I never thought that the issue of my future brother-in-law being a black man would be a big deal. I knew my dad would be upset, he’d toss around the ‘n’ word a time or two, and eventually, it would all be normal again. Because we were, above all else, a nice, normal family.

I was very, very wrong.

Those intimately familiar with my life understand how difficult the dad-sister tango is for me. My father still does not claim my sister. He won’t speak to her, and- except for the monetary gift he demands that I give her at Christmas and swear it’s from me- he doesn’t acknowledge her existance at all. See, when my sister got married and my father informed her that she wasn’t welcome anymore, my passive, quiet, pious mother did what she knew to be right- she looked him level in the eye, told him she respected his opinion, and went to find her crochet hooks- because her new grandbaby was going to need a blanket. And that was that. He could rail, he could vent, he could cry with frustration, and she could-and did- sympathize, but she knew that her child’s happiness came far before anybody’s philosophy on the way the world was supposed to work. And somehow, she managed to balance keeping both husband and daughter- and grandchildren and son-in-law- very much involved in her life, and all always knew how fiercely she loved them, even though at times, it wasn’t an easy challenge. And now that I’m his ‘primary family’, sometimes, I get put in that same spot, feeling like he wants me to show my loyalty by not showing loyalty to her- and I cherish that my mom was able to show me how to handle those situations with grace and a very strong backbone.
Sure, everything else my mom gave me is cherished. The appreciation of a curry done properly, an adoration of cats, my fondness of dirty jokes, and love of hummingbirds all came from her. Sometimes I’ll laugh, or smile, and my sister will swear she just heard our mom- but the thing she gave me that I hold dearest is that lesson she taught me when she went to look for yellow yarn so she could make something lovely for her first grandchild.

Real Moms show you how to stand up for what really matters.

And, for the record? They have gorgeous grandchildren:

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