26 years.
twenty.
six.
years.
...is longer than my whole life at this point.
When my parents met, my mom had two daughters. We don't generally talk about that stuff, but I am because it's a beautiful thing. It is a fact that has, many times, reminded me that people are genuinely good somewhere inside. It grants me hope that being a single mom doesn't mean I am unworthy of unconditional love. Dad was younger than mom when they met working at a drugstore together. (Who says workplace romance is dead?) And he proposed to her at a pizza place where we still eat occasionally.
Together, there are five of us kids. I am in the middle, with two older and two younger. We are a normal family by any American standards.
My parents came from humble beginnings and have worked their asses off to get where they are now. For as long as I can remember, my Dad has worked multiple jobs, both in and out of the home. For as long as I can remember, he has never uttered a complaint about this. Throughout my childhood, he has come home from work, ate dinner with our family, taken a shower, went to his office, shut the door, smoked Kool Filter Kings in a soft pack, drank Old Style or Icehouse, and worked. . . and worked. I would hide under his desk, examine his feet, click his pencils, chew his erasers, examine blueprints, hand him highlighters, and watch - in sheer amazement- as he worked his way from the first to the last page of a blueprint. Quietly, calmly, collected, my dad would instill a diligent work ethic and family structure in me, one page at a time.
At the end of the night, he would go upstairs.
Kiss my mom. Watch the news.
And go to bed.
I would be the luckiest woman I know if I could marry a man with half of what my dad has. I would be the most blessed person I can think of if I could share my life with a person who prioritizes and works like him. . .
Throughout my entire childhood, my mother never sat down. I am certain that she did not take a seat until I was about 19 years old. My mom was a foster mom. My family also belonged to approximately 5 other kids at a time throughout somewhere upwards of ten years. My mom tirelessly corralled children of all ages, races, and degrees of neglect. She fed children whose mothers could not. She clothed kids in clean clothes, gave babies baths in the kitchen sink. My mom held crack babies as they wailed relentlessly for hours on end at two in the morning. She shuffled, barefoot, down the hall and peeked in bedrooms as we slept. My mother opened the front door at midnight to welcome a tiny baby with no name. She went to doctor's appointments with a van full of a variety of children.
My mother
walked
through KMart
with a cart full of brown, black, pink, bruised children.
And my mother loved each of these kids for who they were. She loved them fully. She loved them properly. She provided to them all the things I am still ashamed to take advantage of sometimes. She served us spaghetti in punch bowls, and peeled potatoes, three pounds at a time.
To this day, I still am not certain how to cook for just two people.
I still cannot see a baby anywhere and not want to smell it's head.
I can't babysit a friends child without wanting to give them a long, warm bath.
To this day, I know I am a better woman and mother because my mom was. She was to any child that would accept it.
I try my hardest to be as tough as my mother. I work every day at being the kind of person who exudes heartfelt sincerity as touchingly as she does....
My parents used to take us cruising. They took us riding through town to look at Christmas lights. They laid on the living room floor and played Carrom with us. My parents got us Dairy Queen. They let us sleep over at Grandma Pat's house. My parents got us - every year - somehow - the very thing we wanted for Christmas.
To this day, I cannot tell you if we went without. I don't believe I did. If we were struggling, I never knew it and still don't.
Growing up, I watched as my friend's families crumbled into a collection of scattered people. Almost everyone I knew had parents getting divorced. Growing up, that word was never uttered. I didn't think it would happen to us. I knew it wouldn't. I never wondered...and it didn't.
I am so proud of my parents, of who they are, of what they have taught me. I am proud of who they have made me - even when they aren't of me. I value them and love them immensly. They are two very, very different people who somehow co-exist in a beautiful, harmonious balance.
My parents are a solid unit. They are loving people with charitable hearts. They are each other's best friend. They are the backbone of our family. My parents have instilled a sense of values in me that never really occured to me until the last few years.
Anyway, thanks, mom and dad. For making it through these 26 years without killing each other because I need you both and one of you dead and the other in prison makes for a tough babysitter search.
For making it through these 26 years because if you hadn't, I fear I would never know what family really means.
For making it through these 26 years because loyalty is taught best through actions.
For making it through these 26 years because my life has been so much better and enriched because of it.
I love you both.
Love,
Number Three
