Cindy

Droog

Read Cindy's bio and previous columns

May 12, 2008

Mom and Grandma Inspired My Minimalist Mother’s Day

My minimalist Mother’s Day was the perfect match for me.

It started at 3 a.m. when the baby woke up screaming. When I went into his room, he gave me the biggest smile a five-month-old can muster, and for the next hour, he cooed, squeezed my nose, giggled, and laid next to me. It reminded me that no matter the time – day or night – I love being a mom.

Three hours later, my husband managed to get our two-year-old up and dressed before me, card in hand, and uttering the phrase “Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!” although we’re sure he has no idea what that means.

Soon after, hubby packed up the boys and took them out so I could – for the first time in, well, let’s just say in almost too long to be sanitary – thoroughly shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows and partake in other heretofore rushed acts of personal hygiene.

My husband vowed that I would not have to fold a single piece of laundry, or change one number two diaper all day long. So far, so good.

It was a rainy day, the perfect excuse to spend the afternoon on another luxury I’ve missed this spring – plain old sitting around and watching golf.

Sergio Garcia and Kenny Perry, two of my favorites, are at least in the running as of column deadline time. I can quietly root them on since both my sons, at the same time, are napping. Another sweet miracle the big guy upstairs hasn’t sent my way in months.   

I guess I’m not picky, and neither were my mother or my grandmothers before me.

In fact, to this day, my mom seems very uncomfortable when given expensive gifts. It’s not that she doesn’t deserve them, or appreciate them, but it’s just not her way to flaunt anything – of course, with the exception of pictures of her grandsons.

My maternal grandma, who passed away two years ago, often told me all she needed was her stove for cooking, pictures of my late grandfather and for us to call her every few weeks. And although she’d been willed significant oil rights from her grandmother, and could have lived accordingly, she instead chose to live her late years modestly in a one-bedroom house right in town. Her reason? She didn’t want it to be a bother for friends to drive her to the grocery store.

My paternal grandma, who became single at the age of 50, refused to remarry although her bubbly personality, fire and intelligence drew many a suitor for as long as I could remember. She would take me to Friendly’s restaurant, and all the men from her retirement community would come and talk to us. She worked as a cook and housekeeper at a Catholic church rectory, the perfect minimalist environment for her taste.

When my mom had to work late, I’d go with her, and spend the evening alphabetizing the canned goods. I was six years old. She’d tell me stories of ink wells, teachers with rulers as weapons and the time she got suspended for stealing another girl’s pink lunchbox that she was jealous of.

I’d listen as I tried to decide if Chicken Noodle should come before or after Cream of Chicken, a source of confusion not stemming from the alphabetization, but from the fact that “Chicken, Cream” would come before “Noodle, Chicken” if the cans were arranged like the seats in my first grade class.

Today, at 90, she lives in a studio apartment with a day bed that doubles as her couch. She tells me all she needs in life is the station that plays Cleveland Indians ball games, and for us to call her every once in awhile. And she’s not kidding. I’ve bought her two new kitchen clocks, yet hers with the broken frame still hangs. “I gave the last one to Norma,” she said. “She needed one. I gave the first one to a family at church that had a fire.”

I look at that chipped clock every time I visit her, and it reminds me that I hope my offspring inherit more from me than just my button nose. I hope that like their grandparents, and their truly great grandparents, that simplicity plays a part in their lives. That helping others – or at the very least, not inconveniencing them – is born in them, and manages to stay there.

Even after they graduate from Harvard.

© 2008 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

Click here to talk to our writers and editors about this column and others in our discussion forum.

To e-mail feedback about this column, click here. If you enjoy this writer's work, please contact your local newspapers editors and ask them to carry it.

This is Column # CD095. Request permission to publish here.