The Real Mother's Day.

You probably already know this, but most holidays aren't celebrated on the days they actually happened, even a lot of famous birthdays.

Martin Luther King and Abe Lincoln are each honored on Mondays, yet King was born on a Tuesday,  while Lincoln emancipated his spindly self from the womb on a Sunday. Honest.

Of course, we're not really sure of the day or date that Mary, without the benefit of an epidural or even some ice chips, bore J.C. back in the year zero. Rumor has it that, while rapt in the throes of excruciating labor, she glared contemptuously at Joseph and screamed out her son's name. After the dust had settled, Mary reportedly stated that she wasn't cursing her mate, but simply rewarding all in attendance with a sneak preview of her new infant's nome de plume.

That's what I heard, anyway.

And I guess that's my point today. While I'm on the subject of childbirth, I would submit that the historically accurate Mother's Day is any date on which a mom initially becomes a mother.

Follow my theory? That first day of motherhood, whether a woman has given birth or secured her new bundle in some other fashion—that's the real Mother's Day. Today is an honorary figurehead, like t-ball trophies or Prince Harry.

I'd like to relate a father's perspective to my wife's original Mom's Day, on April 23, 1995. Not expecting our little angel for three more weeks, we ventured up to Semiahmoo, a resort near the Canadian border, for one last hurrah before our lives changed forever.

After a relaxing day basking in the warmth of an unseasonable spring day, we enjoyed a nice dinner and retreated to our room. I dozed on the bed, sedated in the fuzzy blanket of the two Red Hooks I'd consumed during the evening.

Sometime later, I think it was around 10:30, my wife's throttling clutch jarred me from my slumber. "I think my water broke. Tim, can you hear me? I think my water broke."

"Nah," I lamely said. "The baby isn't due for three weeks. Go to sleep."

"You're not listening. I'm calling the doctor."

Before I could rise and walk to the mirror to re-adjust my ponytail, she was on the phone (the land line; cell phones were around then, but we didn't feel like renting a trailer to haul ours up with us). Our obstetrician wasn't on call that Saturday night, and the doctor on call advised us to hang tight and come in the next morning.

She hung up. "No way," she said. "We're going tonight."

I wasn't about to argue. We'd both learned that after the amniotic sack ruptures, the risk of infection increases. And while we didn't understand why we'd been told to wait, especially two hours from our hospital in Seattle, within ten minutes, the two of us were speeding down Interstate Five, rushing toward our new lives at eighty miles per hour.

Remembering the Flintstones episode where Pebbles is born, I secretly hoped to be pulled over with the ultimate excuse and given a police escort. Didn't happen, but boy did I enjoy finding out what our new Kia sedan was made of.

We arrived at Swedish Hospital around midnight, my wife's mood gradually waning in reverse proportion to her intensifying contractions. By the time we'd settled into a room and she'd been hooked up to all the stuff, she was hurting a lot, but her labor hadn't yet progressed enough for the summoning of Dr. Feelgood.

While armed with a cursory knowledge of what to expect, my attempts at helping her breathe rang hollow and even offensive, so I shut the hell up, quietly praying for the magic spinal blocking cart to roll in.

I dozed off and immediately felt a jolt to my sternum. It was the second time she'd awakened me that night, but this time, knuckles were involved.

"You will not be fall asleep," she said, replacing her business hand back atop her belly.

"Gotcha." I sat up and stared straight ahead.

At length, the anesthesiologist arrived. I'd never witnessed my wife so elated to see a man, including me, and I was fairly stoked as well. Soon, we were actually chatting in the gradually lightening room, and as dawn approached, pushing time had finally arrived.

Lights were rolled out of closets. Nurses gathered. When the doctor walked into the room, it reminded me of Elvis finally strutting onto the stage after his band had worked the crowd into a lather for a few minutes. Showtime.

She pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed, to no avail. It wasn't working because the baby's head was slightly tilted, the doctor said. He tried the vacuum cup device to straighten her little noggin and suck her on out.

Nothing.

"Forceps," I heard him finally say.

"Shit," I thought. "They're pulling my girl out with something that looks like it's used for peeling chicken breasts from the Weber. Oh, well, I suppose he knows what he's doing."

The doctor locked the instrument in place and pulled while she pushed. Our baby's wet little body oozed out and for the first time, I looked at her. "Hi, Zoe," I said. I focused on my new daughter while the nurse cleaned her up and placed her on my wife's chest.

But something was wrong. My wife's face blanched as the monitor glowed with the descending digits of her blood pressure. Before I knew it, more gowned people had entered the room and I listened to the words "stat" bandied about. They wheeled her out following a hasty explanation of what needed to be done.

My baby was whisked to the nursery and I stood alone in the room which had only minutes before been a beehive of joy and activity. What had happened?

I began sobbing.

A nurse entered and patted my back, escorting me to the waiting area while uttering words of encouragement and optimism. I watched a meaningless basketball game in a meaningless room, so much hanging in the balance.

Finally, the doctor approached. My wife was just fine. Congratulations. Tears of gratitude streamed down my face, covering the dried salt stains of despair from minutes before.

It was a Mother's Day, and boy, was it a Father's Day, too.

She died thirteen years ago today.

She looks a little tired, doesn't she? She was about thirty years old in this picture, taken sometime during 1964.

My mom, Peggy Haywood, passed away thirteen years ago today. That's me she's holding.

She always told me that the baby in Irish families is treated just a bit differently, and I suppose that's true, since my brother is a convicted arsonist, my sister recently served time for grifting senior citizens out of social security checks and I have done absolutely nothing illegalish.

Oh, you know I'm kidding, Tom and Ann. By the way, Ann, Colonel Sanders called and he wants his tie back. And Tom, I always wondered who Pee Wee Herman patterned his character after. You may be entitled to compensation.

Please indulge me, while I tell you a little about my mom. Last year, I described the day she died. Since her death does not define her life, I'll expound about the woman she was.

She was born Margaret Loraine Conway in Medora, North Dakota on April 21, 1934. Her Irish immigrant father, Patrick Conway and mother, Marie, were fifty and forty years old, respectively at her birth, which were considerably advanced ages, especially during The Great Depression. Marie was the only member of her family to receive a college education, since she was born without fingers on one hand, and thus, such a heinous birth defect, in her parents' eyes, eliminated her from the "desirable wife" pool.

Nonetheless, Marie and Patrick produced a brood of seven children, two of whom died during childhood. Peggy, which is the Irish nickname for Margaret, was the youngest, the "baby."

My mom didn't know her dad very well. Patrick died when she was eight years old, leaving my grandma with three young daughters at home and two sons fighting the Axis abroad. I can't imagine what a hardship this was, but I think this era may have planted the seeds for the humor which exists in the family to this day.

The family moved to eastern Washington after the war, and my mom came of age during the 1950s, wearing poodle skirts and saddles, idolizing Montgomery Clift and chasing her dream of being a teacher. She loved basketball, at a time when girls' hoops involved less sweating than playing chess.

She met my dad at a teachers' college, Central Washington College of Education, where they fell in love, were married and raised a family in the midst of Cold War America. Mom took a break from teaching elementary school to stay home with the kids, and I think that's the period of my life that shaped me into the person I've become.

She possessed the perfect recipe for learning, playing, communicating and, more importantly, an overwhelming compassion.

From that point, I'd like to say that the rest is history.

But here's the thing—I don't want just history. I want her here...right now.

Every time my teenager steps onto the court for an opening tip-off, I yearn for my mom to be with us in those uncomfortable bleachers. I can see her sitting there, calm and collected, yet beaming at the sight of her granddaughter, playing a game which she herself played sixty years ago, albeit in a skirt.

When I say to my ten-year-old, "You really shouldn't wear your hair back like that, because I can see the face lift scars behind your ears," and she responds, "Dad, it's totally worth it to look five," who do you think comes to mind?

Peg.

I miss her so much. When she died, I was thirty-five and she was sixty-three, which really pisses me off. Sometimes, one of my kids looks at me in a certain way, and I reflexively think, "Hi, Mom." I wasn't cheated out of knowing her, but my kids were, and it makes me angry and sad and grief stricken, even now.

Even thirteen years later.

Mom, there's a lot going on right now, and I hope you're watching, because these kids have you to thank for how truly sensational they are.

I wish you were here.

Miss you, Mom

It's been twelve years—twelve years this week—since she left. Her name was Peggy Haywood, and she was my mom.


The phone rang early that morning; it was a Saturday. I could immediately sense the alarm in my dad's voice, as he explained that my mom was extremely lethargic and even a bit delirious. She'd had a cold all week, but it had worsened to the point that he asked me to meet him at the emergency room.


My mind raced, but time slowed as I drove that thirty miles to the hospital. Surely things couldn't be that bad, but why did he feel the need to call me? Oh, well. I'm sure she's just worn down, and she'll get some good medication and be as good as new.


My dad met me as I entered the E.R., and we quickly walked back to where she lay on a gurney. I had expected to be able to talk to her, to reassure her, but that wasn't what I encountered. Her eyes were wide open, but she didn't speak. I've never witnessed eternity reflected in a person's eyes; they seemed focused, literally, on everything. She didn't look at me; she looked far beyond me, and at that point I knew... I knew she was dying.


All I could do was choke out a few words, telling her she'd be okay, as they wheeled my mom into the Intensive Care Unit. Please mom, just hang in there. I'm not ready for this. After the gurney disappeared around the corner, the doctor approached my dad and me. My knees nearly buckled as she verbalized my fear; my mother's body was battling profound sepsis and her chances of survival were extremely slim.


She passed away a few hours later.


I don't remember why, but I returned to my parents' house later on, alone. As I entered my childhood home, my mom was everywhere. Her partially opened purse sat next to her favorite recliner, her People magazines stacked neatly beside it. I collapsed into her chair and sobbed emphatically, just saying her name over and over and over again. I may have stayed in that chair for thirty seconds, or an hour or four hours; I have no idea.


At that point, things moved very quickly. Everyone was still in severe shock, but so many arrangements had to be made. The minister at her church asked if any of us wanted to say any words about her at the funeral. Really? You're asking me to sum up the person who shaped me into who I am, who devoted her very existence to her children, into a few words? My anger, of course was completely displaced, but it burned nonetheless.


A few days passed, and through the overwhelming sadness, I sat at my computer to compose something for the pastor to read. I knew I couldn't read it myself, no matter how brief it was. Her traumatic death still lingered heavily with everyone, but I felt compelled to write a simple poem to describe this remarkable woman:


You taught me what a friend is.
Then you were my first friend.
Crayons, open faced jelly sandwiches.
I insisted on planting a garden on the side of the house.
You painted a sign that said "Tim's Garden."
We played catch.
You got me that Daniel Boone hat that I had to have.
I wore it twice.
We talked.
You usually talked more.
I'm still not sure if you really were asked to sing in the Metropolitan Opera.
And that you had to refuse, saying, "No, my family comes first."
Your orange wedges always tasted best at my soccer games.
I wish I could have one more hug.
One more Christmas Eve.
One more People Magazine with the crossword puzzle already done.
One more time to tell you how much I love you.


I miss you, Mom.

Thinking ahead a little

It's August. The mornings are just a little bit darker, a little cooler (actually, a lot, compared to last week). Autumnal thoughts have been creeping into my head on these mornings—thoughts of football, Halloween, and of course, back to school. 

For those returning for another year of academia, it's an exciting and anxious time, and it often boils down to that first-day-of-school fashion choice. You and the majority of your classmates haven't seen each for three months, so the opening day of school season is like the show without the runway.

I clearly remember returning for my second grade year. My goal was to look like a combination of Greg Brady and Keith Partridge. My parents had finally let me abandon my military-style haircut, and I was ready to step out. I tried on the new flare-stye pants at the Auburn JC Penney, but, apparently, my height hadn't been keeping up with my weight. My mom would've had to cut off the entire flare part, and so, being person she was, she drove the two of us to the downtown Seattle Bon Marché, where they had a larger selection. We came home with two pairs of the "husky"-sized flare pants, in bright colors with stripes, and a bunch of other cool, neo-hippy stuff for slightly overweight young dudes. Naturally, we then went out for lunch.

Whenever I returned home from school shopping with my mom, she always asked me to thank my dad for what I'd received that day. I hope I thanked her too.