I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge my mother on her birthday. *As a disclaimer, in no way is what I am about to say meant with an air of braggadocio, or as an attempt to put others down. These are simply statements of fact. This is not up for debate. Also, before anyone complains, I would have written more, but I’m a busy guy… My mother is better than yours. She just is. At least that is what I have been told my whole life. I was told this every winter when she came to my elementary school with trays full of potato pancakes for the entire grade because 1.) I was the only Jewish kid, and she didn’t want me to feel alienated, and 2.) So that the other children would be given a proper introduction to a previously unfamiliar culture to them. Besides that one kid who told me he was shocked to find out that Jewish Santa Claus was a woman from Skokie, IL, the most common sentiment I heard those days was that my mom was a pretty awesome lady. When in first grade, one kid spent his recesses trying to take me down with a “Stone Cold Stunner.” Of course, due to the size difference, Johnny didn’t have much success, and I didn’t complain. But when my teacher called home one day to let my mom know about the situation, you bet your ass that she was at the school the next day to cut a promo on Johnny that would make Steve Austin proud. For legal reasons, I don’t think I can get more specific than “If you touch my son... I’ll… you AND your family…” Needless to say, Johnny was a pretty good friend after that. Growing up, she viewed government holidays not as days where children don’t have to go to school, but as perfect opportunities to get a REAL education. So she’d fill up her minivan with all the neighborhood kids, drive us into the city, and share with us the museums and other indelible touchstones that Chicago has to offer. During those instances, I can remember hearing others tell her the standard, “you’re the best, Mrs. Z,” and I even grew accustomed to kids saying, “I wish Sandy was my mom.” It didn’t occur to me until later that I won a lottery. I understand those prior examples are more testimonials than declarations of fact, so I present the following as irrefutable evidence to her greatness: My mother is the one who personally taught me SEVERAL languages because she knew that my greatest weapon would be communication. She taught me that when someone tries to hurt me, not to retaliate, but to kill them with kindness. My mother is the one who successfully conned my way into a private meeting with my favorite author, where I received a full hour of one-on-one time by telling his agent that I, an 11-year old, was a newspaper reporter looking to interview him. My mother is the one who took me to a utopic lakefront cabin in the woods every summer to allow me to get in touch with nature, learn how to swim, and get away from the rest of the world to recharge my batteries. My mother is the one who deemed it necessary to learn, absorb, and understand as many cultures as possible, and would take me to powwows, ethnic festivals, conventions and the like. My mother is the one who used the money she put aside for surgery to send me across the world. She’d rather live in physical pain than for me to miss any educational opportunities. She’s the one who held up the vocabulary flash cards when preparing for my S.A.T. She’s the one who drove me to piano lessons, guitar lessons, Kung Fu practice, and anywhere else she felt would help my development. She’s the one who retired from her job as an executive at age 40 to focus on her “real” career: raising her son and daughter. And yet, she still uses whatever free time she gets to teach French and Spanish to young ones in after-school programs. My mother is the one who took me to doctors when I was sick. Sang to me when I was scared. Clothed me when cold. Fed me when hungry. Taught me to read. Taught me compassion. Taught me the value of human life. She showed me that when life throws you a curve ball, or a broken neck, it isn’t an excuse to quit, but an opportunity to become stronger than ever. She showed me that living a life by your own rules and not succumbing to whatever society deemed “cool” would be even more rewarding than being part of the crowd. She’s the woman who has the ability to balance raising her two children, teaching hundreds of other children, looking after her mother & brother, being a devoted wife to my father, and somehow finding the time to be in a book club. Most importantly, she’s the one who never laughed at my dreams. (She’s also the one who has never laughed at a single one of my jokes, but that’s another story.) She is the one who spent every day since I was born with the overriding thought, “How will my actions ensure that my children have a storybook life?” I just hope that if I have a family of my own someday, that I can be even 1/10th the parent my mom is. I have faith that even then, the kid would turn out all right. I thank her for being my mother. I thank her for having enough love to go around to share with the world what she shares with me. I thank her for being with my father nearly 29 years, and for putting up with him (and me) all this time. It is an indescribable feeling to know that I am part of her larger plan. Each day, my greatest motivation is making her proud, and validating her tireless efforts. She makes it easy for me to tolerate all the playful mocking I receive for liking comic books because, in the end, my mother is proof positive that superheroes DO exist. She may not have a secret identity or wear a cape. Her Batmobile may have more cup holders. And she may not be invulnerable, but make no mistake; I’d rather have her in my corner than the entire Justice League. With all due respect to all other mothers out there, to me, it isn’t even close. My mother is the best in the world at what she does. Happy Birthday, Sandra.
Posted on: Tue, 25 Mar 2014 19:31:59 +0000
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