My Crazy Peggy

It's been about a month since my last update. In case you were unaware (which isn't possible if you've read any other post here), I just moved to Chicago, started my new job and am getting settled in my own apartment. A little busy.

I've mentioned my mom in almost every post since I've started this blog. A majority of my posts include two very accurate comments about her: she is totally nuts and even more amazing. I wouldn't be who I am if it weren't for how she's raised me, everything she's given up for me and all of the support she has offered. Honestly, a post about my mom could very quickly turn into an entire book or 8 part series. In order to avoid that, I guess this is basically an overview of the most important to me: momma T. 

My mom is the craziest woman I know. Depending on which sides of her you've seen, you could interpret this in many ways. She's crazy because her drunk alter-ego, Peggy, loves to dance in the crosswalk downtown to Gangnam Style. Also, she's crazy because she's the mother of three even goofier girls. Mainly, she's crazy because she's selfless. Another crazy thing about her, is that she's not nearly as crazy as she should be. Let me start from the top. 

I have far too many examples of Peggy's finest moments, but the origin is the best place to start. Peggy evolved during football season 2012. My BFF and I were tailgating with my mom and her friend, Limber Kimber. As she's taking her third or fourth Jell-O shot in the newspaper parking lot, my best friend says, "Peggy is so funny. She's loving the shots!" Wait, what now? Turns out, for the past few weekends that we've spent binge-drinking at tailgates, he (incorrectly) thought my mom's name was Peggy. We died laughing as we headed toward our favorite spot that's typically reserved for US Soccer and black outs. Peggy determined that she would go forward with that name as her official "bar name." After this decision, she kicked off her new heeled boots, threw her purse on the ground and giggled that her "puss and boots" were on the floor as she skipped over to the door guy. God help us all.

Perhaps it's because I don't have children of my own, but I feel like my mom must be insane because she raised three girls. No other reason, just that I can't imagine parenting anything, let alone the daunting task of three beautiful, intelligent women. My Tamagotchi pets would always die because I forgot to feed them or pick up their nano-poop. She continues to parent us as the eldest has become a mother, the middle continued to make dumbass decisions into her late twenties, and I still find myself in crisis after crisis. Those that believe parenting stops when the kids move out are the most foolish people I know and should reconsider the decision to reproduce. She still offers daughter #1 parenting advice (have a margarita before putting L to bed when he's sick), though sometimes the validity is questionable. Peggy talks to #2 after each stressful day at work to say that things are heading in the right direction and remind her that she's come so far. And, just today, bailed me out with some cash because Ventra  hijacked my bank account again and I don't have anything in my cupboards except tea and a jar of almond butter that I recently used as a hammer. This doesn't include consoling me IN HER SLEEP on Sunday night when I finally realized I'm all alone in the city. After 32 years of parenting, my mom continues to be number one for each of us girls. Did I mention that she did a lot of this on her own? Saint.

Obviously she's selfless as a mommy of three, but it extends so far beyond that. Her motherly calling bleeds into every area of her life and strongly embraces anyone close to our family. After 35 years at the same employer, she is known to all as "Aunt B." She bakes cookies for birthdays, brings treats on holidays, plans at least one party a year, reaches out to coworkers that are going through hardship and remembers everyone's special moments. So many of the men that she works with have sought me out to tell me what an incredible woman she is. Many of these colleagues of hers have become invested in our family, coming to dance recitals, graduation parties, weddings, and any event that Peggy determines worthy of a gathering.

In high school, a group of friends came to my house to celebrate a wrestling team win and have cookies my mom made followed by some shots of Barton's (barf). A boy that I wasn't particularly fond of had gotten into a fight. His lip was bleeding, his eye was bruised, and his hand was sliced to the bone from glass- clearly in need of some immediate medical attention. One of the other boys explained to my mom that the injured guy's parent was abusive. It was this reason that he was refusing to go to the hospital. My mom drove him to the ER, worked her magic, and covered everything so his parent wouldn't find out. She did all of this without hesitation. I had forgotten about this night until about a year ago, when he told me how much it meant to him that she did that. Again, I have countless friends who could easily tell you how my mom has made them feel loved; giving up her day off to take care of them after surgery, gotten out of bed at four in the morning to drive them home because they took too many shots of Rumpleminz, baking and delivering lasagna for a friend that just gave birth, picking them up from the airport because I'm at work, or just a quick phone call to say hi. It's one thing to have a great mom, but even better to share her. Mostly for bragging rights though.

Finally, she's totally not crazy. How does that happen? I can truly count the number of times I've seen her in tears and tell you in extreme detail how it went down because it is so rare to see her in an emotional state. I'll never forget the times that she has yelled at me, partly because she scares the shit out of me but also because it's only happened a few times(sister #2 probably can't say that, she was more naughty!). This lady has had a ton on her plate, oh, and she tries to have a life of her own. Many people in her situation would be locked in a looney-bin or at least involved in some seriously-needed social services. I would know, I worked with that population for years.

Maybe people think I'm a social outcast, freakishly introverted, or suffering from some developmental delays when I immediately blurt that my mom is my best friend. But, as I previously mentioned, we've been through some serious shit together. My mom is the only one that has been literally next to me in each step of my life: walking across the stage when receiving my diplomas; going through the tedious processes of selecting my first car, my puppy, my college, my prom dress, etc.; excitement of new relationships and depression of wrecked ones; years of my autoimmune issues and the very odd side effects I've experienced; and, most recently, visiting my new home in Chicago. I was only ten, but I knew that the minute I lost my other parent, that mom would be twice the parent and the only person that will ever love me unconditionally. She just needs to learn to grill some filet mignon and we'll know that she's a robot.