The Favorite One

 

I’m pretty sure I was her favorite.  I mean, how could I not be? I’m chatty (if not a tad mouthy and a little sarcastic), I’m a ready and willing lunch buddy (a requirement if you wanted to hang with Liz) and I’m always up for a Target-run at 10:55 PM for plastic storage totes and a label maker for an all-nighter closet cleaning party (she really adored organization).  So out of all seven of us kids, I’m confident she loved me best. 

Only problem is, we ALL thought that.  Ask any of us (in the absence of the other six) and we’ll tell you in a hushed tone so as to accentuate the importance of this honest moment, that we were her favorite child.  It was obvious by the way she made us feel about ourselves.  Like we were the most talented, most important, most cherished person on the planet.  Like we were the only thing that mattered to her.  Really mattered.  Like we were capable of anything we set our mind to and she would be there to support whatever that thing was.  Cheering us on.  Giving us a knowing nod, a wink and an embrace that said, “I never doubted you.” 

This is what a good mother does.  She makes her children feel like they are better, smarter, and more talented than they really are, even in the face of evidence that probably suggests otherwise.  She leads them to believe they are the preferred sibling.  And after years of that subtle ego-boost, her children actually start to believe it.  They think they are amazing.  And they try amazing things.

Mom’s Life Lesson #8

Make People Feel Important.

For people will forget the words you say.  They will forget the things you do.  But they will never forget the way you made them feel.

Mom understood this better than anyone I know.  And it didn’t stop with her children.  If you were her friend, chances are you thought you were her best friend.  If you were her sister-in-law, chances are you thought you were closer than all those ‘others’.  If you were her co-worker, you undoubtedly thought she liked you just a little bit more than anyone else.  And if you just met her while in line at the grocery store, you surely felt like you just saved a couple of hundred bucks on your therapist’s couch.

And you would be right.  For Mom loved people.  Really cared about them. And when you were with her, you truly were her favorite person on the planet.  It was a gift.  One that came naturally.  She didn’t even have to work at it. 

 Liz's Favorite Grandchild

The rest of us are left to just try to emulate her.  I admit, I have to fake it a lot.  I want to believe that my daughter’s talent show song is American Idol quality, but when I don’t, I have to make her think I do.  I really strive to be interested in my neighbor’s grandson’s college plans, but I’m not.  So I feign interest and ask another question, “So how did Danny do on those SATs?” I like the idea of befriending that total stranger at the airport, but hiding behind my Kindle and pretending I’m hearing-impaired comes more naturally.  But I branch out anyway and strike up a conversation.  I can tell you all about the sheet-metal business started by that lovely lady and her father who sat next to me on my last Oakland-bound flight.  Because that’s what Mom did.  And the world could use a little more of Liz’s style, Liz’s sincerity, Liz’s friendship.

And certainly, my home could use a little more of Liz’s parenting style.  So everyday, I strive to make each of my three girls believe they are my favorite. That they can do anything, be anything, create anything. Even though I might have to fake it.    

And so, on this Mother’s Day, even in the face of evidence that probably suggests otherwise, I persist in believing that I was her favorite.  You can too.  And we’d both be right.    

Big Things

Me, Erin, Paul & Mom's Childhood BFF Donna Morris at our First EA Foundation Meeting

I did not just play as a kid. Playing was something less industrious children did. I incorporated businesses, produced elaborate musicals in my backyard and devised ways to make money. Together with my BFF, Suzanne, we were the Paul Allen and Bill Gates of Vancouver Way…without the tech-brilliance and the binary code. We may not have created a multi-million dollar computer company in my garage, but we did run a pre-school out of it when we were barely old enough to babysit. One summer we borrowed a pre-school craft book from my kindergarten teacher and assumed that meant we were experts in early childhood development. So naturally we invited 15 young kids to my house in order to operate a summer pre-school.

We informed my mother of our crazy plan. She could’ve laughed and ignored our idea as the pretend fantasies of delusional children. Could’ve (maybe should’ve) informed us that it would never work, would be too difficult, would take too much time or make too much of a mess. Could’ve told us that a 10-year-old and her 12-year-old best friend were not fit to supervise 15 preschoolers with craft scissors. But she didn’t. Instead she bought us construction paper, found us some scruffy carpet squares and loaned us her best children’s books. She told us we could do it and then opened the garage door and quietly watched from a distance to make sure we managed to keep the toddlers alive.

And that’s when I learned-

Mom’s life lesson #7: You Can Do Big Things.

You can do things that are hard. Never be paralyzed by a fear of failure. Try it. You will surprise yourself. You will find that you are smarter, more creative and more capable than you ever thought you were. She didn’t have to say it. She let me discover this for myself by packing the glue and the glitter into a Rubbermaid container and handing it to me. It was a little craft kit of self-confidence. A way to say, “Go for it. Open your preschool. Why not?”

And so we did it. We dove head first into a sea of finger-painting four-year-olds. And given the $1 per child we charged, moms flocked to our little enterprise like exhausted moths in need of respite to a flame. {What I wouldn’t give these days for some naïve neighborhood kids to offer to entertain my brood for such a fee!} We were a bona fide entrepreneurial success.

It was only the beginning, for Suzanne and I would engage in many a’ enterprise that started with an overly-ambitious idea and became reality because of my mother who encouraged it. No plan was too big. No idea too lofty.

So here we go again….trying to do big things. And it’s even more exciting than free childcare.

The Elizabeth Ann Foundation is Launching! My sister Erin, my Uncle Paul (mom’s little brother) and I have pooled our creative efforts to create something we hope will be REALLY BIG~all in memory of Mom!

We’ve partnered with The Tower Foundation of San Jose State University, which is mom’s alma mater. We hope to raise funds to support their Communication Disorder Clinic-which is exactly where Mom honed her craft as a speech pathologist (and is not funded by State funds at all, but rather relies on the generosity of folks like us). Our inaugural event, A Sweets Soiree Open House, is Saturday March 3, 2012, and it’s all For the Love of Liz. Come eat Mom’s favorite desserts with us and learn all about this foundation in her honor.

SEND US AN EMAIL AT lizsgirls@gmail.com and we’ll send you an official invitation (which includes all the details of how you can help, even if you can’t come and eat sugar with us)!! We want you to be there so we can make it big. REALLY BIG. Because we can do big things.

And because we know Mom would hand us her recipes, help us pen our to-do list and say, “Go ahead. Make this a success. Why not?”

Moose Rubs

The Perfect Birthday Gift

My three year old has a little Grammie in her. She talks incessantly, enjoys a tasty snack, and loves a good back rub. Demands them really. Much like her Grandma.

Growing up, you could not get within a 3-foot circumference of Mom’s back, could not accidentally brush up against her spine, without her asking you to rub her back. Sometimes she would just request it outright, “Oooo. Rub my back,” she would sing. But more often she would simply shake her shoulders and shiver her torso like a draft had suddenly sent a chill through the room. We all knew what that meant. No words were necessary. And if her pathetic little dance didn’t produce the desired results, she resorted to bribery. . .

When I was young and naïve as to the value of a dollar, I would yield my massage services for a penny a minute. But I would not come that cheap for very long and soon Mom had to turn to my younger (and less savvy) siblings as her indentured servants. We were all subject to this child labor camp at some point. And inevitably we would all groan when the back dance was performed in our presence as if we’d just been asked to scrub a toilet or fly a suicide mission over Nagasaki. “Do I haaaaave to…?

But I guess that’s why I bought her the Moose one-year for her birthday. . .

Yes. A Moose. With wheels. Of course. Don’t you have one? And it’s meant to be rolled on your back. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But looking back, I’m not sure why I bought an implement that could only be used for the one thing I consistently tried to avoid doing. Except that she loved it. And I loved her. And that’s what we do when love people. We do things we don’t want to. She definitely taught me that.

Mom’s life lesson #6: Service is the Best Love Language.

I’m willing to bet Mom didn’t love driving my ungrateful 9-year-old-self to play practice five nights a week. I’m sure all those Pop-Warner football games she attended in inclement weather weren’t really that thrilling-even in light of my breathtaking halftime shows. I’m quite confident Mom did not love painting the entire inside of my house and I know she was totally exhausted all those nights she sat up with me and my nursing newborn. But she still cleaned my house and cooked me extravagant meals the next day.

She organized upteen closets, vacuumed countless miles of carpet, packed and unpacked a seemingly unending passel of children, and offered up her home as a refuge for many a' nomad because that’s how she hugged. She served. And when she did, you knew you were loved. She didn’t have to say it. It was her little shoulder shake, her tiny torso shiver that communicated without words how she felt. There was no mistaking that dance of affection.

So when I awkwardly squeeze myself beside my toddler each night and demand she turn off her mouth but instead she turns to me and demands a back rub, I try to remember that. And so I do it. It doesn’t really matter that I’m exhausted. It doesn’t really matter that I really should be downstairs folding laundry, loading the dishwasher or watching ‘The Bachelor’ (don’t judge). Nope. I lift my weary arm and gently rub her back. And then do it some more when she’s unsatisfied by my first brief effort. I do it because I love her. And because she’s got a little Grammie in her. And I tell her that. I whisper, “Grammie loved back rubs just like you.” And I wish I had that Moose.