An Appreciation of the Mother of Bugwalk

My Birkenstocks arrived and proved to be comically large. I should have used the measuring guide supplied online rather than the chart that attempts to match one’s United States shoe size with the European size. (The guide printed inside the top of the shoebox also would have afforded the correct size.) Determined to emerge from this pandemic a Birkenstocks wearer or to die trying, I ordered another pair, one European size smaller.

A week or so ago, I spoke with the owner of my apartment building about getting going with the remainder of the flood-related repairs in my place (so I can get a kitten!). She said that the person who lives across the hallway from me is moving out, so I could potentially move there while the painting and carpeting in my place are completed. I asked if I could just stay there permanently, and she said that was certainly a possibility.

One of the best kinds of flooring for persons with chemical sensitivity is hardwood, but only if it was refinished well in the past. There is low-VOC stuff you can use for refinishing hardwood, but apparently it’s not very good; four coats might be needed. The apartment across the hall has hardwood that was refinished long ago.

Also, the person who is moving out of that apartment could be an interior decorator if she wanted. When I have now and then caught a glimpse of the place, it is gorgeous, whereas my approach to home décor is one hundred percent functional: I have placed my breakfast on this plastic-topped folding table and it has not yet fallen on the floor, so I guess this will make a good kitchen table.

That apartment is also farther from Mr. Phlegm-O-Rama (at least a little) and completely sealed off from Mr. Hoarder, with his endless projects and the sickening smell of his dryer sheets; his dryer vents into the shared space outside my kitchen window. However, I’m sure it is also closer to something I would dislike just as much, so maybe it’s better to stick with my familiar set of gripes.

On Mother’s Day, I called to thank my mother for her many excellent acts of parenthood, including but not limited to not braining me with a brick when I was a helpless infant. Also our idyllic garden in which she labored for so many years, the vegetables she grew that we actually ate, the bread she baked, the delicious meals she cooked (including chop suey and kniffles). 

How she taught me the commutative property of some mathematical operations before I even went to kindergarten, and started teaching me to read when I was three. She taught me shapes by pointing them out as we walked around the neighborhood; I remember her pointing out the ellipse-shaped window in a door. She also sent me to the YWCA to learn to read music before I was in kindergarten.

She filled our home with music and NPR. In the evenings starting when I was maybe 10 or so, we played chamber music in the evenings. My mother played the piano, my sister played the violin, and I played the cello. It was lovely. I remember we played trios by Frank Bridge.

She made sure we had music and swimming lessons, and classes and lessons in all kinds of other things at the Y, and she drove her three children back and forth to all of these engagements.

She expressed enthusiasm for a huge number of things (bugs, meteorology, chemistry, rocks, history … ) and demonstrated competence in many areas, including painting, fixing the dryer, making wicker baskets, re-caning chairs, and hanging wallpaper. She was not afraid to teach herself how to do new things. She modeled a love of nature and all living creatures, even including the mice who lived in our attic, for whom she put out dried corn. “Spiders are our friends and sisters,” she told us. She was unperturbed by my most alarming choices, or at least acted like she was unperturbed.

In the past decade, she convinced me to avoid refined carbs, and that I should overhaul my omega 3:6 ratio, which I think has had marked health and mood benefits. 

Maybe best of all, my mother is one of the funniest people I've ever known. She has made me laugh thousands of times; coming upon my scribbled notes makes me laugh again.

I love you so much, Mom. You are everything to me.

Not wanting my father, also a very loved and very appreciated parent, to feel left out, I wished him a happy Mother’s Day, too, and thanked him for carrying me in his womb for nine months. (That was him, wasn’t it?) He assured me that I was welcome.

I feel connected to my parents when I smell a fresh breeze, or see lovely greenery or flowers or trees, and when I eat my gorgeous salad each morning, with its vivid colors and fresh flavors.