My Mother

My mother never thought she played a big enough part in my life – or anyone’s – which is ironic since losing her is what defines my life now. It’s at the center of everything I do. I base my every action on making sure I never make anyone feel the way she made me feel on our hard days and that I never let anyone suffer alone the way she did on her worst days. I am grounded and empathetic and resilient – all because of her. Being forgotten is something she always worried about, but she shouldn’t have because I miss her more every single day that she’s gone. And I would trade almost anything to have her back. I write about my mother a lot because she still plays such a huge role in my life but due to how difficult our relationship was my memories of her aren’t always happy. The thing is because she was an untreated manic depressive the bad times with her were excruciating and the good times were unbelievably wonderful. And most days I only think about the good side so I don’t know why I refrain from sharing it more. Here are some of my good memories of my mother.

She let us drink pepsi pretty much from birth and when I went to elementary school and it was frowned upon for small children to drink pepsi she didn’t bow to the expectations of teachers and other parents – she just wrapped my pepsi can in tin foil as if it was some kind of disguise and sent it in my lunch box anyhow.

In the car she listened to 8 track tapes – some Barry Manilow, some broadway musical soundtracks and a bunch called “oldies but goodies” with 50’s and 60’s music. When “Duke of Earl” would come on she would sing “Duke, Duke, Duke; Bo & Luke, Luke, Luke; Uncle Jessie and Sexy Daisy” which we thought was hysterical because we were huge Dukes of Hazard fans. My kids have never seen The Dukes of Hazard but I taught them both that song and they love it.

She also had a cb in the car during the time that Smokey & the Bandit was popular. She called herself “Speedy Mama” and would talk to all the truckers while she drove us to school. Picture a woman 5 foot 2 with big perfect Doris Day blonde hair and a little tiny body wrapped in whatever preppy gear was popular holding her own with truckers in a car always filled with at least 5 or 6 children under ten and that was her.

When she was hung over (which was rare) she told us she had the Irish Flu. My brother and I thought it was something you could actually case – like the Swine Flu so we’d stay as far away from her as we could until she miraculously recovered the next day. Brilliant.

When I was a teenager she would buy me all the cutest clothes from whatever movie was cool at the time and if I didn’t want to wear them because I was always so insecure she would put them on and wear them out herself until I’d seen her in them enough times to feel like I could pull it off and want them back. She always looked better in them than I did even though I was 26.5 years younger.

My mom had charisma. She thought she was great and she was excited to go anywhere and when she walked into a room you felt her enthusiasm and you were drawn to her. She was always laughing the best laugh. And she made everything fun. We look exactly alike but I’ll never be her because she had something special that can’t be replicated. Marianne McCarthy brought the party just by walking in the door.

During dinner if conversation lulled or she was bored by us, she would start quoting from her favorite movies - The Sure Thing, Seems Like Old Times, or Night Shift. The quotes wouldn't make any sense in the context of what was going on but she would laugh so hard at herself that none of us could help but laugh either.

She made everyone feel special. My mom died when I was twenty seven years old. It had been fifteen years since I left elementary school and I hadn’t been back to that school since. But at my mom’s wake all of my elementary school teachers showed up. They didn’t all still work there and they hadn’t seen my family in a decade but they were all there. I was holding my own until I saw them and it just killed me. She was such a good mother, such a good person that no one ever forgot her. It was one of the most profound moments of my life.

My mother loved being Irish. She never said so but I think a big reason she fell for my dad was the great last name. We celebrated St. Patrick's Day like it was the Fourth of July. And we all felt proud to be McCarthy's.

My mom came on a lot of field trips when I was in elementary school and everyone always wanted to be in her group because she was the most fun chaperone. When we’d drive into DC on the bus, all the other moms would point out the monuments and the things we’d seen a thousand times. My mom would point out “there’s where Pa got mugged” and “there’s the liquor store where Uncle Jesse bought his beer” and then she would laugh and hand out secret M&Ms to everyone while the teachers weren’t looking.

My mom threw the best birthday parties that all involved some kind of hoopla like 15 little girls in the back of the station wagon going to the Ice Capades at the Capital Center on a school night.

My mom judged people pretty harshly but the people she loved she really loved. When she made me a memory book for my twenty fifth birthday and it asked who were her favorites of my friends she wrote Nancy and Patrick my two best childhood friends. I’d made so many new friends since then but I’d held onto Nancy and Patrick and so had she because for both of us that time in our life was our best time together.

When we got our first betamax, my mom would rent movies from the Photomat and borrow a neighbor’s betamax so that she could hook them both up and record bootleg versions of our favorite movies to watch again and again. She didn’t think it was illegal because she would fast forward and not start recording until after the FBI warning.

If I curled my bangs under too tightly in high school she would tell me I looked just like Sister Miriam who if you went to my high school you know was not the best looking nun ever.

On Sundays for football she wouldn’t make a real lunch or dinner. Instead she would make a full Super Bowl type spread every weekend including these little sausage things she called “Hog Balls” and we’d eat that ALL DAY.

She went a Bar Mitzvah once and since she didn’t understand Hebrew she was bored during the Torah portion where the boy reads from the Torah so after that whenever anything boring was happening she would refer to it as “the Torah portion”. Like if we were watching a movie and a boring part was coming up she would say “I’m going to run and fold the laundry during the Torah portion, but I’ll be back for the action”.

When we ran for student body offices in school she made up mean jingles about our opponents. Bobby never met my mom but he can sing the jingles because I still do.

Marianne McCarthy was beautiful. And loving. And so funny. She was my mother. And I miss her.