Ode to My Mother for Mother's Day

 
 The funny thing about us as women is we think we're hideous. Every single one of us looks in the mirror and silently does a little rendition of "nip and tuck" or prays that the collagen fairy of youth sprinkles anti-aging dust on our skin during the beauty rest we can never seem to get enough of. We want smaller thighs, fuller lips, 6 pack abs and hair extensions. The beauty industry is capitalizing on all our weaknesses. Don't get me wrong I am the makeup hoarder Queen and I will defend my eye shadow collection to the death! But just because I like makeup doesn't mean I need to pile it on all day every day or even when I go camping and fishing. I am comfortable au naturale. So what I feel happens as women, is we become desensitized to the makeup mask. We begin to see through our own ficade of carefully applied eye liner and flawless foundation. What happens when we don't t like the person we see in the mirror anymore?
     
         I come from a long line of beautiful women, strong women, courageous women. My Grandmother on my mother's side lived through The Great Depression and was widowed in her early thirties with seven children. She survived a car crash that broke her neck and left her in a halo brace for months. She could have let all of those things defeat her, she could have given up, but she never did. Now she is close to 90, has a beautiful peaches and cream complexion and does her hair every single day. She has pride in her appearance.
         
     My own mother grew up in the Seventies and was a self proclaimed hippie. She played the guitar and sang, met famous musicians such as Carlos Santana and hitch hiked her way across the United States at 15. At 19 she met and married my father in 1978 and my birthday is almost a year to the day of their one year anniversary. I don't remember many days where I haven't seen my mother without makeup. She always has at least the essentials on--mascara and lipstick. She has chronic illness and pain and has to walk with a cane most of the time. She has endured sickness, infection, survived a coma, birthed five children, and survived the death of her husband for three decades,  and has lived to tell the tale! For awhile she loved certain things about herself---her flawless teeth and beautiful smile, her strong legs and athletic body.
         
             My Mother loved the outdoors and hiking, she still brought her guitar along and we would gather round the campfire on various camping trips and sing. She taught all five of her children to value themselves, develop their strengths, forgive easily and overlook their weaknesses and to not ever give up. All the while, she has always been the makeup diva and can apply her makeup flawlessly, even now when her hands shake, and she drops the eyeliner and she can't wear fancy shoes because they've been replaced by diabetic nurse looking ones that she loathes. She had to have all her teeth surgically removed because they kept breaking, due to neuropathy and a nerve disorder. Her once strong legs have become scarred and discolored, her feet misshapen and painful. Through the years she has lost a part of herself that defined her individuality to the very core. She feels ugly, she feels dependent, instead of strong and capable. All of the waterproof mascara doesn't keep her from breaking down from time to time and feeling insecure. It may not look like she has cried under the eye makeup and concealer, and the emergency Visine in her purse, but I can still tell.
           I've tried to tell my mother that I still see her the same way, strong and fearless, capable and strong. The Mom you could---and still can talk to about anything. She still sings, she still enjoys the occasional camping trip outdoors, she still laughs her contagious laugh, and often at her own jokes or expense. She brings hope and light to all she meets. To know her, is to love her. On a recent weekend hospital stay she asked me to bring her a comfortable sweat suit. As I am at her house, on my cell phone she patiently describes the matching shirt hanging in her closet and the coordinating pants down stairs in the laundry room. I am trying to gather all of the things she's asked me to find, and I am getting frustrated. In my mind I am thinking 'Mother, you don't have to look perfect all the time! life isn't about perfection, or appearances, you're in the freaking hospital! It's okay to have a bad day and look the part.' Than it dawns on me that she does these things for herself, to maintain her composure, to feel radiant. She needs to reconnect with her familiar self every morning as she sits in her chair and applies her makeup. Her makeup is not a mask, but rather a window. She feels better about life, when she feels better about herself. She isn't hiding who she is, but enhancing the part of her that she can. She may never run for miles again or hike mountains, or even enjoy a bowl of popcorn with her own teeth. Her beauty is something that defines her and something she has control over.
         I recently lost a close friend who was a definite diva. I never saw her without designer clothes, and accessories. Her son always wears Nike's, she always had gorgeous hair and a flawless appearance. Few people knew the battle she was really facing was lupus and lymphoma ( a type of cancer). Few people knew that she struggled to make ends meet, provide a better life for her son, and keep her own sanity in tact, without losing the part of herself that matters. I remember her mother visiting one day and asking her to run an errand. She became more and more impatient as my friend applied her perfect "cat eye" eyeliner and rouge lipstick. She wasn't about to go run an errand looking like a total slouch. She had a reputation to uphold! Recently when I attended her viewing, she lay there in the casket looking gorgeous and flawless, even still. She looked peaceful and content, her hair a halo of curls, with her makeup applied to perfection. I recall speaking to several of our mutual friends and through tear-rimmed eyes telling each other how good we looked--even in our grief and despair! I sat and looked through the photos, many of which I had taken, and admired her beauty. No one would dispute her attractiveness. Did she feel that way herself? Did she know how admired she was? I ran into a gorgeous mutual friend of ours at the funeral and told her how beautiful she looked. She smiled and said: "The reason we all look so good today is because she taught us how to. She taught me how to do my hair and makeup like this." And so is the legacy she leaves. Her beauty lives on in her memory, in the photos, in her son's eyes,  and when I see her mother and family. 
          
           Why hate yourself? Why resent the face you see in the mirror? Why wish for a different hair color and save your pennies for liposuction and plastic surgery when perhaps the only person who notices your flaws is yourself. You are beautiful and strong and capable. You are fearless. My mother recently told me how proud she was of the women I'm becoming, of this blog, of the mother I am to my own son. She told me that sometimes it's hard to look in a mirror and be reminded of yourself at so many different stages of life. False teeth, cane, flawless makeup, or not, I do not see her for what she lacks. I see a woman of great confidence and faith. I see someone who loves unconditionally and has never turned her back on me---not even for a moment, not even when I asked her to leave. I see my best friend. She is my number one supporter, my harshest critic, and the best mother I have ever met. My childhood was not perfect, and we have spoken of those times as well. The truth is, we are all a product of our parents successes and failures. We as children are a source of pride and disappointment, contention and confidence. I feel so blessed to have been raised and continue to be so close to such an amazing woman, because she is nothing short of amazing. She is the foundation I have learned to build my life on, the voice of reason and reassurance in times of despair, and the comfort of love and home when I need it. My favorite quote is: "If at first you don't succeed, go back and do it the way your mother told you." I have found this to be true, time after time.
          My mother is patient, she is kind, she is all things to all people, and she never says the worst thing anyone could ever say to me: "I told you so." She simply smiles, holds my hand and offers support, advice and the freedom to make my own mistakes. She knows that whether I fail or whether I win, she will be there on the sidelines cheering me on and making sure I know how amazing she thinks I am. Looking in the mirror doesn't have to define you, we define each other. Sometimes, when you look closely you realize, just like my mother realizes with me, that we are not all as flawed as we think we are, and even our scars our beautiful.