Momma's Momma

Mother’s day is coming up. Duh.

Instead of going on and on about what *I* want to receive for the holiday [ahem *massage or full spa day* ahem], I figured I’d share some memories of my own Momma. Yah. Memories of Momma’s Momma

Besides, I’m not really feeling the love from my own heathens right now – so maybe writing about good stuff will help me realize that one day those heathens may just blog about how awesome I am. Of course, I’ll be senile by then, but a girl can dream.

Ok. Some Memories of my Momma…

When I was – oh – 7 or 8, Momma signed up the family to be in a traveling marching band. She played the base drum. I was a flag girl. We marched in parades in 90 degree heat. We marched in rain. I almost broke my shin with flag, more than once. My little brother? He was a water boy. Thinking about it now, I can see why Momma did this. We were on welfare, and by us doing this…together…we got to travel all summer and see fun things and it was all free. I think we did some fund raising, probably, but I don’t remember that. Just the bus trips and laughs and songs and parades.

When I was a senior in high school, Momma finally got her dream job. In a town 4 hours away. Instead of making me move during my last year, she took the job and moved there herself. Leaving my brother and I on our own. He was a sophomore at the time. She came home some weekends, but mostly she mailed in the rent check and simply trusted us. Can you imagine? Letting your 17 and 15 year old kids live on their own, 4 hours away? She had no choice. And to be honest, we were good kids. I had one party – no alcohol involved – and my little brother was just excited to be part of the group that he didn’t tell on me. Otherwise we just went to school, I’d go to my job most nights and pick up my brother from practice. I’m quite impressed we survived, honestly – but hell, to do that today? I don’t know how she did it.

Momma is a cake decorator. We always had the bestest coolest most delicious cakes growing up. She’d make one for us to bring to school , and make everyone gather around it for pictures. She even taught cake decorating classes at the high school some nights. Sometimes I got to tag along – I was the official frosting taster. Momma owned a bakery where she’d make cookies and cakes and donuts and lots and lots of Finnish Nisu (sweet dough, like cinnamon rolls, but way more divine). She was able to make decent money decorating cakes for weddings and other parties. I remember looking through her zillions of pictures in albums at all of the cakes she’d made over the years, noticing the fashion and hair styles that changed along with the photos.

Momma made my wedding cake. Nothing crazy like fondant or berry cream filling or anything. Plain old vanilla with white frosting and a silly monogram or something on the top tier. I was so proud to tell people she had made it for us.

Momma is beautiful, strong, talented, funny and stubborn. I’d like to think this apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.

Love you more.