Mom's Table

When I was growing up, my friends loved to get an invitation from my mom to have supper at our house. A meal at Mom's table meant that no one went hungry. We always sat at the table and shared this time together, and there was more than enough food to go around even when there was an unplanned guest. A typical supper included at least one meat, one or two green vegetables, one or two yellow vegetables, a starch (usually potatoes), rolls or bread, a relish tray and condiments, a salad following the meal, and dessert. Usually we would have to wait awhile before we could get to dessert.

Mom always fixed well-rounded, healthy meals (as defined by the era and her upbringing), but there was another reason for all this bounty. When I was little, I was a scrawny, sickly child. I always got croup a couple of times each winter, in addition to the usual maladies. My dad was in the military, so we were entitled to free medical services. When I was seven, I got croup as usual, and the military doctors prescribed an antibiotic that I was allergic to. To compound the issue, they prescribed an adult dose by mistake. The result was that I became severely ill and dehydrated, but the doctors at the base clinic did not figure out why. Finally, in desperation, my mother took me to a civilian doctor who diagnosed the problem and placed me in the hospital right away. My dad, who was away on military maneuvers, was flown home because my situation was touch and go. I was down to about forty pounds at this point, and when I was released from the hospital, my folks were instructed to put some weight on me to give my immune system a fighting chance. By fifth grade, I was the fattest kid in class.

My mother brought other items to the table...things that were not so healthy. Although she was an excellent cook, she was forever apologizing for the food she served. When she was three, my mother's eleven year old sister died. Growing up, her mother frequently compared my mom unfavorably to her deceased sister. This was not done in an intentionally hurtful way; my grandmother was trying to correct my mother's behavior. Grandma was a remarkable, resilient woman who had been through some very difficult times, and children don't come with instruction manuals. Grandma wanted the best for my mom, but the message my mother heard was that her dead sister never did anything wrong, and my mom would never be able to match her behavior or accomplishments. It's impossible to compete with dead people. My mother developed an inferiority complex wider and longer than the Grand Canyon.

My mother parented me the only way she knew how, modeling her techniques on her mother's. I was forever being compared to the children of friends and family. Over time, I harbored a lot of resentment and I lacked self-confidence. I was nervous about trying new things because there was a nagging voice in my head that assured me I would fail. I couldn't seem to find anything I was good at doing, except reading, and that's hard to show off. "Pull up a chair and watch me read!" Hardly a crowd pleaser. I stank at sports, and it didn't help to be "the fat kid." I learned to defend myself with a quick wit and sarcasm.

While I was in fifth grade being fat, my mom was busy getting help. I do not know what prompted this, and my memories of this period are vague. My mother was hospitalized with a "nervous breakdown," and I went to stay with a friend and his family. I didn't know exactly what was going on, but I knew that my mom had to be away for a while. I know that my dad and I went to see her, only because we were in a bad car accident after one of the hospital visits. I remember the accident, but not seeing my mom during her time away.

When she came home, she was a woman on a mission. She went through the attic like Sherman went through Georgia, and she threw out a big pile of toys and belongings from her childhood. It bewildered me to see all these things waiting for the garbage men, and I wanted to rescue some of the items. In some way, though, I knew that even though I did not understand, it was important for my mother to get these things out of our house.

As I grew older, my self-esteem grew also. Through an insightful and inspiring school teacher, I discovered hidden skills...talents that would bring me out of my shell, and serve me well as I became an adult. My mother, because of her quest for self-understanding, began praising me and rejoicing in my accomplishments. Her meals remained as delicious as ever, and they were no longer served with a poison pill.