An ode to my mom.
Recently, at my mom’s retirement party celebrating her successful 43-year career as a Creative Director working on some of the most iconic campaigns in automotive advertising (Like a Rock, Heartbeat of America—including having Aretha Franklin sing a version of the song she wrote... NBD), she mentioned to me that when my brother and I were little, she had to decide who to disappoint each day. She thought since she couldn’t give 100 percent to both her career and her kids all the time that she was somehow letting one or the other down. I was blown away at how she perceived it. I had a much different take.
Growing up, my mom was my idol (she still is.) Not only was she brilliant and drop dead gorgeous (yes, every boy I had a crush on growing up had a crush on my mom, but that’s a topic for another post…), she was generous and warm and loving. She would read to us every night. We went through all of the Little House on the Prairie books, Harry Potter, etc. You name it, she read it to us—even when she was so exhausted, she would nod off mid-sentence mumbling “mash potatoes” leaving my brother and me in a fit of giggles. And then in the morning she would get up and go to work—a woman dominating the landscape of the “Boy’s Club” of advertising and trailblazing a path for all the woman who would come after her.
She knew exactly who she was. She didn't lose herself in the role of being a mother. She was multi-dimensional. She had a career, she had a family, she was an accomplished runner, avid reader and she valued time with her close friends (all of whom were also powerful, badass women.)
Everyone who knows my mom adores her. She is quite literally the most caring and generous person you will ever meet. Which is even more incredible considering how her life started out.
Growing up, her father was an alcoholic. And not a fun drunk—let’s put it that way. He had trouble holding down a job, which meant my mom, aunt, uncle and grandmother were constantly uprooted. Eventually, (and thankfully) my grandma left him.
My mom’s mom—my Grandma Helen—was the daughter of Albanian immigrants and did her best trying to raise three kids on her own on a secretary’s salary. And while she loved her kids deeply, she admitted years later she knew her kids had to help raise themselves.
And still, somehow, my mom turned out to be who she is.
I couldn’t believe that she thought she had somehow not given us kids enough. She was always there for us. And sure, she would have to travel for work and wasn’t one to bake cookies and help out in the classroom every day, there was never a time when I doubted that I was her priority. I knew that at any time I needed her, she would drop everything for me. And she quite often did—and still does. That’s just who she is.
So as I continue to pursue my career (coincidentally, or not, as a Creative Director/Writer), build my side business, raise my kids, rescue dogs, travel around the country in an RV, read, write, and whatever else I discover brings me joy, there isn’t one part of me that thinks I can’t do every damn thing I want to do. And then some. And that, is no coincidence.
Some women tell their daughters they can do anything. My mom showed me how.
