Yeah, I'm a Momma's Boy.

A Story by Kawartha Jeff

Short story about my Mom. Advise you read it to learn about how to parent.

Sometimes in conversation with someone I am asked what my Mom is like, my eyes light up and energy builds quickly as I now get to describe one of my favorite things to talk about, my Mom.
She is a short woman yet not diminutive, she is a quiet woman yet has a lot to say, a non-confrontational woman who you would never want to argue with. She is very much like her mother was, another woman I hold in high regard. She is dedicated to her family and she worked part time in one of the roughest neighbourhoods in Toronto, just like her Mom did, to help support her family. I can remember nights when we would go to pick her up and my excitement in seeing her had built to a point that I wanted to burst through the car door when we pulled up to the curb. “Hold on Jeff”, I would hear from the front seat. My father would look around and up and down the street to ensure none of the seedier, rough types were around, then would send me in to get my Mom. That’s the kind of place she worked in to make sure I had what I needed. That’s dedication to family.
I remember days on the dock in the hot summer sun, after prepping veggies, dip and drinks for us all, she would come down the stairs to the dock in her bathing suit with large dark sunglasses and a bloody Caesar in hand, she looked like an actress in Hollywood. It was there that I would not only soak in the rays, but the love she would give me. That love felt warmer than the blazing sun because she was there with me, to watch me dive and tell me how great it was, even when it wasn’t. To tell me that I had held my breath for 30 seconds when I hadn't. To get terribly scared when I would hold my breath under the dock for almost a minute and she didn’t know where I was.
My mom was also that woman that never let anything go empty in her home. Everything stocked and in its place with backups if needed. It wasn’t until I left the house and lived on my own that I realized that toilet paper didn’t just appear under the sink, my dirty clothes didn’t leave the hamper and end up clean in my drawers, nor did I have someone to curl up on the couch with anymore.
Leaving home was bittersweet as I couldn’t wait for my very own freedom but was lost without the love of my Mom. The memories of all those little (and big) things she did began to flood back, making me realize that for 19 years I took for granted the one person who lived to make me happy. Leaving home and your Mom really puts into perspective what that woman did for you when you couldn’t fend for yourself, and even when you could.
So yeah, I’m a Momma’s boy. Whatta ya gonna do about it? I used to fight kids who would call me a momma’s boy (and as I got older, the one who told jokes about my momma) and I write this fully admitting that I am indeed, a Momma’s boy. I am proud of that, I would do anything for her as she has done for me not because I feel I owe her (which of course I do), but because she is the light of my life. Being a Momma’s boy is nothing to hide, take pride in the woman who not only gave you life but worked endlessly to help you live it the right way, with the right constitution and integrity that shines above the rest. My mom taught me how to cook, clean and sew. She also taught me how to be strong, how to take a stand and that it’s okay to cry no matter what the other boys say. But most importantly she taught me how to love.
I married the woman of my dreams, my best friend and a woman who is eerily similar to my mom yet thankfully, much different also! I was taught what a woman should be and how a woman should be treated and also how I should be treated by a woman. I learned I didn’t want a meek, small minded woman who agreed with everything I said. Nor did I want someone who wasn’t independent and strong willed. My mom stands her ground for what she believes in and doesn’t back down, she is independent, strong and doesn’t agree with my Dad all the time. Just ask him.
I married a woman like my Mom with the same morals, love and intelligence, that is one stereotype I am glad came true. I have looked up to her as not only a mother but as a friend. I have told her of troubling experiences or problems in a relationship, told her about my nights of debauchery and mayhem she probably didn’t want to hear and I never once felt judged by her. She told me when I was wrong and she’d put me back in line like a good parent but I never felt that trying new things, pushing my boundaries in life or being honest was taboo, I felt like she supported me.
My mom’s name is Nancy Pearce Holden and I am proud to be her son. I am proud to walk bedside her and hold her hand, to talk about her and wrap to my arms around her when I see her. I am happy that I have done okay in life so she can look at me and be proud of me. Living up to the amazing man my father is was no small task and I know most men won’t accomplish such a gentlemanly stature, but I hope my mom sees an iota of him in me and takes pride in that. I learned, was guided by and loved by the two most amazing parents a man could ever wish to have. To have a mother that you could turn to for advice, REAL advice andnot the June Cleaver advice, was crucial to a guy like me who was always willing to try anything once. She kept me in line with love, strictness, positive reinforcement and the fear I would hurt her. There is no feeling worse than hurting or disappointing your Mom, trust me.
So at this point I usually know the person I have rambled to about my mom is looking through me with a blank stare and glazed eyes. I never care though, because I am proud to talk about my Mom. I am proud of her as a woman, mother, wife, friend, daughter and human being.
It’s okay, you can leave now, unless you want to hear more about my mom?