Liam's proclamation!
This is a signature
Molly Shotwell move. Mom always used to stick her arm in the air like
this and proclaim all sorts of news.
"I am the
cleanest in the world!" after a good shower.
"Dinner is
Ready!" whether it was macaroni and hot dogs or a roast chicken.
"I thank all of
the little people." At the annual Academy Awards Party, where she
dressed up as Jodie Foster and graciously accepted her Oscar.
Mom was a special, playful, intelligent,
woman. It's so funny, when you're a kid, you have no idea that
anyone is growing up any different than you. When I was older and went to
friend's houses, I was shocked to find that they weren't allowed to play kick
Mom off the bed. A game where we would jump on her, pound on her, and
then literally kick her off of her bed with our feet or elbows or whichever
part of us was particularly sharp that day. She would lay there on the
ground for a minute and then pounce up and get us again. Then we would
find ourselves thrown on the ground. It was a shock to find that some
Mom's didn't shove napkins in your shirt when you were carrying food to the
table and your hands were full. On Easter and Thanksgiving, we
would invite all of our family friends who didn't have anywhere to go
over. All of the holiday homeless, Mom would say. It didn't matter
if Mom knew them for a day or twenty years, she would greet them with a bear
hug. We would have the biggest, most delicious meal. She didn't care if
people sat at the table, on the couch, or the floor. We didn't have the
matching linens and plates, but we had our favorite gravy cow. The one
that her mother and grandmother had used. All that mattered was that we
were all together. It's the company that you love. It's the people,
not the things. Those evenings were spent cleaning up all together and dancing
around the dining room table to Sam Cooke. I must admit, more than my
share of whipped cream and mashed potatoes was thrown in that dining room. We
made up weird nicknames. Fromage and le Grande Fromage. Because
Mom, of course, was the big cheese.
She was a short (Five
feet, one and three quarter inches) woman, but she was a bulldog. If she
fixed her mind to something, it was done. It was more than done, it was
done two years ago. Even though she was so short, she was pushy, and
while working for the neighborhood association in downtown Grand Rapids, she
would go into apartments where the slumlords were the worst and install locks
on windows and doors. She memorized tenant laws in Michigan so she could
defend these people who had no voice. She personally fought landlords who
were mistreating people. She wasn't afraid of anything. We
would sometimes get mice in the house and when most mothers would get scared,
Mom would unhook it from the trap without thinking and throw it away. No
standing on the chair screaming - no problem.
Best of all, Mom
didn't brag about these things. She changed people's lives, and fought
for their equality, but she just did it because it was right. That was a
rare and fine quality.
It's been four
years. Four years today, and I still don't have the words. All of
these stories are old. The dancing, the stubbornness, the mouse, all of
it. All I have are memories that I try to hold on to, but they are
slipping so fast. The harder I try to remember, the faster they go.
I try to drum up memories, but they feel stale. Old. Sometimes they, too, feel
dead.
Today marks the four
year anniversary of Mom's death. It's harder this year because of
Liam. He will never meet his Grandma Shotwell. And this breaks my
heart. Just writing it brings tears to my eyes.
As I write this, Liam
sings his ode to his puffs. He wants water. He wants to get
down. Balls, water bottles, pacifiers are shoved into his mouth. He
wants me. And so, I leave this page. I will leave these thoughts, and I
will move on. I will be the mother that Liam needs. I will be his
big cheese. I will wrestle him to the ground and attack him with
kisses. As he grows, I will shove napkins in his shirt. We will dance to
Sam Cooke. We will dance to Aretha and Bruce Springsteen. We will
move on and these memories may fade, they may change in my mind, we will keep
what we have alive. We will take what we have, remember, and develop
more. We will laugh. We must.
I love you, Momma.
