Defining Mom

Under her pillow she keeps rosary beads and a life guard’s tank top.  In the darkness before drifting off  I can sometimes hear the clicking of the beads.  Her prayers include petitions for her children and grandchildren.  Not because they're wayward lambs.  She simply asks for God to guide and protect them.  For her, channeling God's love to her children and grandchildren is the best way that she can care for them.  The tank top is her daughter’s.  It found its way under the pillow when our daughter left home for college in San Diego.  Jessica long ago graduated and is now living a short 15 minute drive away with two children of her own, but the shirt remains.  I suppose it’s her way of staying close to her daughter and a reminder of the days when Jessica lived here and filled the home with the ever alternating joys and maddening drama of a teenaged girl.

Cora defines mom.  That’s no knock on my mom, or your mom or anyone else’s mom.  It's just that for thirty years I've observed this consummate mom in action.  I've watched with a mixture of love, admiration, awe and a great big measure of gratitude. 

Mother and Child by Kelli Emarian

She became a mom 30 years ago this coming June.  We were living in San Francisco and after hours of timing contractions we went to Kaiser Hospital a few miles east on Geary Boulevard.  The verdict; not dilated enough, go for a walk and come back later.  And so, following doctor’s orders we went to nearby Golden Gate Park and took a walk through the gardens.  It was one of those rare days for San Francisco; broiling, oppressive heat with not a breath of wind.  She struggled through the walk, heavy with her first child, yet cheerful as always even in the misery of the hot midday sun.  We chatted about the future before us and on occasion she would sing.  It's her way of coping with an arduous walk (The one time that I took her backpacking she trudged under the weight of her pack and sang to keep her spirits up.)  Hours later she gave birth to our son.  Our daughter came three years later at Peninsula Hospital in Millbrae, a 20 minute drive south of San Francisco. 

During the nurturing years she did all those things a mom is supposed to do; changed diapers, taught values, wiped tears, dispensed hugs and didn't tolerate disrespect and bad manners.  She worked a full time job and still saw to it that every evening the family sat down to a proper dinner and she never tolerated a messy home (still doesn't).  She taught her children how to cook and care for themselves and made sure that they knew the values of hard work and frugality. 

She kept a welcoming home warm and brimming with hospitality and always greeted the children’s friends with a smile and an offer of something good to eat.  She’s been the mom that other kid’s would say to our proud children, “Your mom’s cool.” 

It’s Friday morning leading up to Labor Day weekend.  Cora and I are on the bridge headed for San Francisco’s City Hall.  Our son is already there to marry his high school sweetheart.  We’re halfway across the bridge when he calls us with a major problem.  It seems the DMV never sent him a license renewal notice, his driver’s license expired and the government minion behind the counter isn’t about to issue him a marriage license.  He needs us to turn around and get his birth certificate but Cora tells him she can’t be sure that we have a copy.  A moment later his bride calls imploring Cora for the certificate.  As Cora tells it, “I can hear in her voice how disappointed she is and it’s like a knife; it just cuts my heart.”   We continue on and while I'm driving Cora is devising a plan and all the while, as she tells it, "Praying to God and all the saints." We arrive and she leaves the car and marches with stern purpose past the forlorn little wedding party of family and friends, up the steps, into the domed building.  She stops at security, asks the guard some questions and then tramps up the stairs.  The little 5 foot nothing Filipina is going straight to the top.  Not the top of the building; the top of the government.  She’s on a mission to see Mayor Gavin Newsome.  Our group mills around inside the building then outside the building then inside again; sitting; pacing; shuffling feet and checking watches every few seconds; tick-tock.  Mayor Newsome, she is told, is not in.  Undeterred she says, “Then I need to talk to the person next to the mayor.”  The Chief of Staff meets her and she tells him, “Sir, I’m going to kneel down and beg of you to approve my son’s ceremony.  My son is scheduled to get married today but they won’t issue him a license because his driver’s license is expired." She describes the crisis in detail  to the man, making sure that he knows that Matthew is a good man AND a citizen born in San Francisco. The Chief of Staff listens attentively to her story and sensing a mom’s distress, (and probably realizing he won't get rid of this little pit bull easily) thinks it over and says, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do for you.”  He gets on his phone and turns the case over to Chief Administrator (and now Mayor) Ed Lee who meets Matthew and his bride in his office.  A short while later they're man and wife.    

It’s our 30^th wedding anniversary and we really have no plans.  We don’t need to have one special day; they’re all good.  But still there is a pretty fair chance we’ll go to dinner.  Nothing real fancy.  There’s a local restaurant that we’re regulars at.  The owner knows us and treats us like family.  But on this night Cora has something else in mind.  She calls to tell me that she’s making meatloaf.  “Meatloaf for our 30^th anniversary?  Wow.”  Cora explains that our daughter Jessica is home alone (her husband, a firefighter, is on duty), with her one year old and newborn and is feeling overwhelmed.  She’s going to Jessica’s house to help out, to help take care of the babies, tidy the house and the meatloaf is going to be their dinner.  I’m on my own. 

Recently our son threw a birthday party for his daughter and Cora spent the week prior rolling lumpia.  When she visits either of our kids homes she sniffs out something to tidy up or dust or sweep or clean and goes to it.   

Some stop being parents when the kids graduate college.  Some stop when the kids move out.  Some stop by pushing the kids out the house after high school.  And some folks have kids and never become parents.   

Cora became a mom 30 years ago and never stopped.  She’s always mom to her two children, and now she’s Mama Cora to her three grandchildren.  At her recent retirement party I found out that she was something of an office mom at Clif Bar, where she worked.   She freely dispensed advice on marriage (“It’s hard and takes work and patience.”), parenting, and life’s hiccups.  She doled out smiles, lit the office with her personality and the warmth that comes from a good heart. 

The title of this post (and I'm admittedly horrible at conjuring up titles) describes something that is really quite impossible.  How do you define mom?  She is at once and various times; nurturer, caregiver, doctor, nurse, teacher, cop, head shrinker, accountant, chef, janitor, purchasing agent, negotiator, peace keeper, gardener, mechanic, seamstress and jack (or Jill) of countless other trades.  Most importantly, at least in our case, she's the one who keeps the domestic core from unraveling.  I suppose that I came up with this title because when I watch Cora in action I'm seeing all that a mom is supposed to be.