It was the house near Delaware School in Evansville. I’m amazed that I remember the kitchen and more amazed that I remember my Mother in it! Having never seen a Christmas tree in the same house two years in a row until I was twenty-six years old, the memory of kitchens seems too insignificant to clutter one’s memory with. My Mother in the kitchen generates not even a blip on the computer screen. Donna Reed did not show up in apron and pearls with a pan of warm cinnamon rolls in her hand and my Mother evidently didn’t even bother to watch the damn show when it appeared on our black and white TV.

But I do remember this one particular day. I came home from school for lunch. Mother was eating a can of peas, butter bread and coffee. I hated that house and particularly the kitchen because when you turned on the light in the dark of night those giant, crusty-backed water bugs would scramble for cover—hundreds of them. To my nine year old mind, the water bugs, a mother who ate only peas for lunch and the shame of our poverty-stricken dysfunctional family were all related to each other. Surely, if my Mother could just pull off the June Cleaver act one day a week our lives would greatly improve. But, no, she sat around in her red chenille bathrobe smoking cigarettes and working crossword puzzles looking more like a hung-over Cher than June or Donna—and she didn’t even drink!

The memory of this kitchen makes me question what kind of memory my boys would have of the Tally Road kitchen or our Summershade kitchen if asked to do this assignment. They would teasingly remember store-bought cookies rather than homemade. They would remember a house too neat for their slovenly taste but they would also remember a home that was open to the “K-Mart Deli Club” (Mark’s childhood gang) and the kings of macho, Sims’ high school gang, “The Posse.” They would remember “The Bartella Motel” which our home was dubbed when Aunt BJ moved in followed by Bazz and Rachel when they lost their house in the tornado of ’86.

Perhaps they would remember that it took all five adults to get Sims through the sixth grade. He was too busy learning to be bothered with school. They undoubtedly would remember Smoke, the black lab, Sims convinced Mom to buy two weeks after Dad’s death. Smoke ate large quantities of plastic toys, my best Italian sandals, a can of Frito bean dip (metal can and all), Rachel’s favorite flip-flops and a $580 check. So as not to be conquered by this wet-nosed tyrant, I gathered the pieces of the check, put them in an envelope and delivered it to our lawyer with instructions to “deposit it in the estate account.”

They will not remember their Mother as Donna Reed, June Cleaver, Cher or Mrs. Brady. They will remember her as Brenda-girl, Bren-dog, the Brenster, the Brown-Eyed Girl, and most frequently as Mom.

It’s weird how life turns back on itself sometimes….

I was recently watching my next-door neighbor as she cheered and clapped while her two-year old daughter did something out in the yard.  I caught myself thinking, “Man, I’m glad I don’t have to do that anymore.”

Truth be told, I’ve never been much of a clapping and cheering type.  But I did my stint when the kids were young in the backyard and at soccer games and gymnastics meets and t-ball and lacrosse games and dance competitions and….well, you get the picture.  There’s a lot of clapping and cheering when you’ve got three busy kids.

As I watched my neighbor, I breathed a sigh of relief.  It’s a different time in my life, and I’m loving watching my crazy young adults who I used to cheer and clap for as they do other things, like going to college and working and figuring out what they’re going to be when they grow up.  These good choices they are making require cheering and clapping alright, but the kind you don’t see. (I love that this internal cheering and clapping can be done sitting on the couch with a cocktail instead of a sports field in a snowstorm.)

Later in the day, after that bit of introspection, my mom called.  She and my dad live in a wonderful retirement community close to our house.  She wanted to let me know that her African drumming class was doing a little performance at a local street fair, and to drop by if I had the time.  Now I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with your mom, but I know for sure mine would be disappointed if I didn’t show up.

So along with friends and other family members we headed down to the street fair.  And as my mom’s senior citizen African drumming class ended their performance there I was, cheering and clapping like crazy.  Just like she had for me and for my kids.

As our children grow up and need us less and less, my parents and in-laws are needing us more and more.  This happens all the time, I know.  But it’s never happened to us until now.  We’ve got our own little circle of life going on.

Growing up, I was the classic tomboy. While other girls were brushing Barbie’s hair and wearing plastic tiaras, I was racing my Matchbox cars and riding a skateboard around town. In high school, I briefly considered hiding the rambunctious side of me until I realized the boys kinda liked a girl who wasn’t afraid to play tackle football. Besides, my love of makeup, nail polish, and dresses negated any question that I was really sugar and lace at heart.

As I got older, the wisdom that comes with maturity overtook my desire to conform to the role of “typical female.” I won’t be caught dead without at least a touch of eyeliner but I’ll splash in mud puddles without a second thought. I treasure my long red nails, but I’ll happily break one crashing down a water slide at breakneck speed. Disturbing me during Sunday football is a punishable offense.

My tomboyishness extends to the animal kingdom, much to the dismay of some of my friends. I adore snakes and reptiles, rodents don’t bother me, and most bugs leave me unmoved. Spiders aren’t my favorite thing in the world, but unless they’re hairy, huge, or carrying a litter of babies on their backs, I won’t try to squash them under my heel. I’ve long been aware that the odd juxtaposition of a pretty girl with the soul of a tomboy charms the guys, but I had no idea how useful it would be when I became a mother.

I’m a single mom to three amazing boys. Over the years, one thing that continually unites us is our mutual love of creepy-crawly things. I’m the first one to point out a weird bug clinging to a tree branch and they know it’s fine with me to bring multi-legged creatures into the house to feed and shelter in a shoebox. In fact, I sometimes have to fake being creeped out when one of them decides to toss an insect in my hair.

We routinely try to catch black racer snakes in the yard and I’m happy to indulge the boys as they examine moths, dragonflies, and crickets that stumble across our path. My single weakness is the palmetto bug — a huge, insidious version of a Florida cockroach. The kids know by my shrieking when there’s one nearby and they spring into action to kill it and remove the resulting corpse. Saving me from  death by palmetto bug gives them a chance to be my hero, while protecting me from the heart attack I’d have if I had to do the bug-removal myself. I love watching my kids form an extermination army to save me while I cower in the corner.

If you’d told me decades ago that I’d bond with my children over bugs and reptiles, I would have laughed. Now, I’m grateful that I indulged my tomboy tendencies and didn’t bury them out of a need to be girlie. My boys and I love football and racing mattresses down the stairs, but it’s creepy critters that really bring us together.

Image: Nina Matthews Photography

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