At first glance on paper, my mom and Ray’s mom may seem like very different people. My mom enjoys white wine and drinks coffee so strong it registers on the Richter Scale, while Me-Me--as she has come to be known since the birth of my first son--prefers Mountain Dew and gets her morning jolt from a powdered concoction called “Morning Sunrise” (or something of that nature). My mom grew up surrounded by sisters, a few blocks away from Inwood Hill Park in New York City. She met her husband in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and raised a large family, where the girls grossly outnumbered the boys. Me-Me grew up surrounded by brothers in a small, eastern North Carolina town, met her husband right there, and raised a family where 3 sons were no surprise--since she had been the only girl born to her side in decades.
As John Stewart once affectionately pointed out, New York is a collection of small towns piled on top of each other. New Yorkers do have a microcosm of the world at their feet, but it seems like many of them—especially those of more modest means (like my mom’s family)—spend (or spent) most of their time in their immediate neighborhood, their little chunk of that sprawling, metropolitan space. My mom wasn't livin' it up like an Olson twin. She was going to school, to church, and the grocery store--just like any small-towner in America. Meanwhile, the town where Me-Me resides is legitimately small--and is among the first places new settlers lived before there was a U.S.--the “original Washington”, they’ll be happy to tell you. Bustling metropolis? Not so much--but it’s a really beautiful little spot, that is ever so gradually being discovered (much to the chagrin of many locals) by people just like my mom was 40-50 years ago, who long to see more green—and are tired of hiding every millimeter of exposed skin like Kenny from South Park for 4 months out of the year.
Me-Me’s hometown is a place where the Tar and Pamlico Rivers meet, much like (but still very not like) the East and Hudson Rivers that come together in New York. In the 10 years Ray and I have been married, a surprising set of shared attributes have begun to come together in a similar way regarding the first prominent figures in both of our lives.
Both ladies are friendly enough in their own circles—but I’m pretty sure neither would hesitate to gag or at least roll their eyes at the term “social butterfly”. They are McCartney fans first and Beatles fans second, with Fab Four music forming the soundtrack to their young adulthood in different ways: my parents’ first dance at their wedding was to "My Michelle", and Me-Me played the "Rubber Soul" album for Ray when he was still jamming out in his high chair. Both my mom and Me-Me are voracious readers of their preferred genres and share an affinity for Patrick Swayze—whose celebrated role in North and South is the only reason my mom would ever watch anything semi-historical, and whose perfection in Dirty Dancing compelled Me-Me to scoff incredulously at word of an upcoming remake, lamenting that it could “never be the same” without the original late-great lead.
Still a true New Yorker at heart, my mom can curse “like a longshoreman”—which I love and can surely relate to. In fact, “longshoreman” is an expression that will forever invoke my mom--not only in her capacity for profanity, but because that particular turn of phrase is as much hers as references to “Outer Mongolia”. Me-Me tends to keep her discourse more ‘Disney’ in nature (despite a recent incident where the “asshole!” who pulled out in front of her quickly became a “knucklehead..?” for the benefit of my sons)—but I highly doubt that anyone with three brothers and three sons hasn’t heard or thought the full range of my mom’s repertoire.
Both women are hard workers, who stayed home with their kids as long as it made sense, then saw themselves into retirement with long careers in and around public schools, nourishing the minds and bodies of decades-worth of children--my mom as a nutritionist and Me-Me as a teacher’s assistant. And both come from a stock of strong, independent women—my mom’s mom raising four girls alone when her husband died tragically early, and Me-Me’s mom taking the hard road with 3 kids at a time when ladies didn’t get divorced.
Their capacity to do whatever needs to be done in certain situations is punctuated by an ironic stubbornness that acts as a highly specialized filter for all things in life that don’t ‘make the cut’ according to their preferences. My mom’s abhorrence for most seafood, fellowship events (aka, organized happiness), and The History Channel could be matched in scope and scale only by Me-Me’s utter revulsion for Duke University, Taylor Swift, and cola-flavored sodas. They hate certain things and people with such a white-hot intensity that I keep waiting for Coach K--a known point of intersection for their vehement disgust--to burst spontaneously into flames any day. And air travel as an industry can go to hell as far as they’re concerned—because neither one is getting on a plane to save their lives.
Unless, of course…they had a reeeeally good reason… because they’re also fiercely loyal—to their authors, to their co-workers, and to their children—especially, “the baby”. My mother did board a plane to visit her new grandchildren in Massachusetts a few years ago—a voyage that only served to justify her reinstatement of the ban. However… my youngest brother--her only boy, who went to college 5 minutes down the road from her and didn’t buy his own groceries until he got his Master’s--recently moved to the West Coast. While I’m pretty sure my mom would rather die than fly under typical circumstances, I’m fairly certain she would McGyver a plane from abandoned Tinker Toys and pilot it single-handedly if my brother ever needed something in a hurry. Unlike my mom, I haven’t known Me-Me to get particularly emotional about things—until she got the call from her youngest son that he was moving 3 hours away. Her reaction to that had my mom all over it.
My mom, as I’ve explained affectionately in other pieces, is a very passionate person and has developed over the years--in response to all the grief we’ve given her--a flair for dramatic, emotional outbursts that we call “crying in baseball”. I recall only a joyful, modest tear or two from Me-Me when that youngest son got married this past year—but I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom experienced a disturbance in the mom-Force that very same night, causing her to erupt into a cascade of “baseball” sobs on Me-Me’s behalf--as if in response to a sort of "Bat Signal" that connects all mothers in their moments of sentimentality. After all, it’s only been 4 years since my mom’s baby got married—and she held together amazingly well at that event—so I’m sure the flood gates are ready to bust at any moment in solidarity for someone else in order to make up for holding back and to reestablish a sense of order to the world.
Both ladies are remarkable women, for whom I have much to thank. My mom has given me everything—including the older sister who guided me like a blind person from childhood to college. And Me-Me has given me tremendous love and support for my boys—as well as her own son, who has led me by the hand from my disorganized pre-graduate school existence to the fully-formed adult I am now (wink, wink). I count myself among the lucky to have an incredible mom AND a mother-in-law who is eerily familiar in some ways, but still totally unique and worthy of appreciation in her own right.
As John Stewart once affectionately pointed out, New York is a collection of small towns piled on top of each other. New Yorkers do have a microcosm of the world at their feet, but it seems like many of them—especially those of more modest means (like my mom’s family)—spend (or spent) most of their time in their immediate neighborhood, their little chunk of that sprawling, metropolitan space. My mom wasn't livin' it up like an Olson twin. She was going to school, to church, and the grocery store--just like any small-towner in America. Meanwhile, the town where Me-Me resides is legitimately small--and is among the first places new settlers lived before there was a U.S.--the “original Washington”, they’ll be happy to tell you. Bustling metropolis? Not so much--but it’s a really beautiful little spot, that is ever so gradually being discovered (much to the chagrin of many locals) by people just like my mom was 40-50 years ago, who long to see more green—and are tired of hiding every millimeter of exposed skin like Kenny from South Park for 4 months out of the year.
Me-Me’s hometown is a place where the Tar and Pamlico Rivers meet, much like (but still very not like) the East and Hudson Rivers that come together in New York. In the 10 years Ray and I have been married, a surprising set of shared attributes have begun to come together in a similar way regarding the first prominent figures in both of our lives.
Both ladies are friendly enough in their own circles—but I’m pretty sure neither would hesitate to gag or at least roll their eyes at the term “social butterfly”. They are McCartney fans first and Beatles fans second, with Fab Four music forming the soundtrack to their young adulthood in different ways: my parents’ first dance at their wedding was to "My Michelle", and Me-Me played the "Rubber Soul" album for Ray when he was still jamming out in his high chair. Both my mom and Me-Me are voracious readers of their preferred genres and share an affinity for Patrick Swayze—whose celebrated role in North and South is the only reason my mom would ever watch anything semi-historical, and whose perfection in Dirty Dancing compelled Me-Me to scoff incredulously at word of an upcoming remake, lamenting that it could “never be the same” without the original late-great lead.
Still a true New Yorker at heart, my mom can curse “like a longshoreman”—which I love and can surely relate to. In fact, “longshoreman” is an expression that will forever invoke my mom--not only in her capacity for profanity, but because that particular turn of phrase is as much hers as references to “Outer Mongolia”. Me-Me tends to keep her discourse more ‘Disney’ in nature (despite a recent incident where the “asshole!” who pulled out in front of her quickly became a “knucklehead..?” for the benefit of my sons)—but I highly doubt that anyone with three brothers and three sons hasn’t heard or thought the full range of my mom’s repertoire.
Both women are hard workers, who stayed home with their kids as long as it made sense, then saw themselves into retirement with long careers in and around public schools, nourishing the minds and bodies of decades-worth of children--my mom as a nutritionist and Me-Me as a teacher’s assistant. And both come from a stock of strong, independent women—my mom’s mom raising four girls alone when her husband died tragically early, and Me-Me’s mom taking the hard road with 3 kids at a time when ladies didn’t get divorced.
Their capacity to do whatever needs to be done in certain situations is punctuated by an ironic stubbornness that acts as a highly specialized filter for all things in life that don’t ‘make the cut’ according to their preferences. My mom’s abhorrence for most seafood, fellowship events (aka, organized happiness), and The History Channel could be matched in scope and scale only by Me-Me’s utter revulsion for Duke University, Taylor Swift, and cola-flavored sodas. They hate certain things and people with such a white-hot intensity that I keep waiting for Coach K--a known point of intersection for their vehement disgust--to burst spontaneously into flames any day. And air travel as an industry can go to hell as far as they’re concerned—because neither one is getting on a plane to save their lives.
Unless, of course…they had a reeeeally good reason… because they’re also fiercely loyal—to their authors, to their co-workers, and to their children—especially, “the baby”. My mother did board a plane to visit her new grandchildren in Massachusetts a few years ago—a voyage that only served to justify her reinstatement of the ban. However… my youngest brother--her only boy, who went to college 5 minutes down the road from her and didn’t buy his own groceries until he got his Master’s--recently moved to the West Coast. While I’m pretty sure my mom would rather die than fly under typical circumstances, I’m fairly certain she would McGyver a plane from abandoned Tinker Toys and pilot it single-handedly if my brother ever needed something in a hurry. Unlike my mom, I haven’t known Me-Me to get particularly emotional about things—until she got the call from her youngest son that he was moving 3 hours away. Her reaction to that had my mom all over it.
My mom, as I’ve explained affectionately in other pieces, is a very passionate person and has developed over the years--in response to all the grief we’ve given her--a flair for dramatic, emotional outbursts that we call “crying in baseball”. I recall only a joyful, modest tear or two from Me-Me when that youngest son got married this past year—but I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom experienced a disturbance in the mom-Force that very same night, causing her to erupt into a cascade of “baseball” sobs on Me-Me’s behalf--as if in response to a sort of "Bat Signal" that connects all mothers in their moments of sentimentality. After all, it’s only been 4 years since my mom’s baby got married—and she held together amazingly well at that event—so I’m sure the flood gates are ready to bust at any moment in solidarity for someone else in order to make up for holding back and to reestablish a sense of order to the world.
Both ladies are remarkable women, for whom I have much to thank. My mom has given me everything—including the older sister who guided me like a blind person from childhood to college. And Me-Me has given me tremendous love and support for my boys—as well as her own son, who has led me by the hand from my disorganized pre-graduate school existence to the fully-formed adult I am now (wink, wink). I count myself among the lucky to have an incredible mom AND a mother-in-law who is eerily familiar in some ways, but still totally unique and worthy of appreciation in her own right.
Happy Birthday, Me-Me! May your day be knucklehead-free!
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| Me-Me and Pop, July 1972 |
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| Mama and Daddy, 3 months later |
What a beautiful tribute! I look forward to a pic of the tinker toy plane when that comes to pass.
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