A different kind of mother

mother and daughter photo
Mom and me in the early 90s.

My New Year started off with a phone call from my brother that our mom was found in her bed unresponsive. Within two hours she passed away after being taken by ambulance to the hospital. This was totally unexpected. She tested positive for COVID five days earlier but was asymptomatic.

I’m going through shock, denial, disbelief and grief all at once.

I wrote this story about her years ago. I sent it to children’s book publishers and actually got an offer from a small publisher. I turned down the offer because I didn’t think it was big enough! I’ve never had another offer in my life to have a book published.

Here’s the story:


I have a different kind of mother. She’s not like other mothers on our street. She looks like other mothers. But it’s what she does that’s different.

She sings all the time. She sings songs by men named Wagner and Wolf. But she calls them “VAHgner” and “VOUlf.”

When my friends come over they ask “What is that?”
We listen. “La la la la la la la la laaaa.”

I shrug my shoulders and say, “That’s my mom.”

My friends laugh. Their mothers never sing unless it’s to the radio.

My mom sings all the time. She sings operas while she drives, cooks, shops, gardens, reads and cleans. I think she sings in her dreams.

My mother never buys a loaf of bread. She bakes it every week and slices it with a big knife. Sometimes she lets me punch down the dough after it rises.

When I take my lunch to school, my sandwich sits crooked and looks like it’s ready to fall. My mother packs me carrot sticks, a hard boiled egg, an orange and an apple. There’s too much food and not one chip or pretzel like the other kids get. I like to order hot lunch.

My mother thinks hunting through the woods for mushrooms is fun. She took classes to learn about mushrooms so she knows which are good to eat and which ones are poisonous. I hate it when she asks my friends to go picking with her. But they love to go tramping through the dense green forest, climbing over fallen logs covered with moss. She points out the faerie rings where the mushrooms grow.

My mother grows vegetables in her garden, she won’t buy them at the store. But does she grow peas and carrots like the other mothers on our street? No. She’s proud of her eggplant, asparagus, spaghetti squash and rhubarb.

When my friends come over to play, my mother asks them to weed the garden.

“Nobody wants to weed. We want to play,” I tell her.

Then I turn around and the kids are lined up on both sides of her, pulling weeds as she tells them about the vitamins in vegetables.

My mother doesn’t read ordinary books by popular authors. She likes to read e.e. cummings with letters scattered over the page. I don’t know what the poems say. But my mother gathers up the letters and makes sense out of them.

Digging for clams up to her elbows in mud is how my mother catches dinner. She knows about razor clams that we dig in the surf and butter clams, littlenecks and cockles we find in the gritty gravel. She calls the ones we break with our shovels “clums.”

She picks oysters off the beach, shucks the top shell of and eats them raw right then and there. She eats the roe out of sea urchins and said, “It tastes like caviar!”

She’s the friendliest person on the street. She bakes wild blackberry pies for elderly neighbors and talks tomatoes with anyone who will listen. 

She invites the neighborhood kids in, even if I don’t want her to. She doesn’t care when kids build a fort in our backyard or makes tents in the living room with old sheets. She lets us draw chalk pictures on the driveway and dig for China in the backyard.

At night when she tucks me in, I listen to her sing a lullaby with her beautiful voice.

When she kisses me good night, I love that my mother is a different kind of mother.

mom fishing in the river
Mom fishing at our cabin in Washington.

43 thoughts on “A different kind of mother

  1. I’m so sorry, Elizabeth! I’ll be praying for you in the days and weeks ahead. Your mom sounds like one in a million and a real blessing to you and your family. I’m sure she passed a lot of that unique mystique to you and your kids.

  2. Lighting a candle for you, your mother, your family. Even when we know it is coming, it’s painful. My mother is 83, she goes through phases of talking about passing, because her parents passed in their 80s. So, we know it is there, but we will never want or be ready for it. Sending prayers and hugs your way.

  3. Oh my….my eyes are leaking. My heart goes out to you and your family for strength and comfort. I love your story and she sounds like an amazing woman and mom. Perhaps you could resubmit the story now and get another offer. I’m so very sorry for your loss. 💜

  4. I just read this. E. A. I’m a little in shock myself reading it. What a beautiful, beautiful tribute to your mom. I have a feeling I will be in your shoes in the not too distant future. Dad has been failing the past few months (he’s 90) Hugs from a fellow blogger. DM

    • Thank you! Yes, both my parents are 90 (divorced) but mom was falling daily. My dad has fallen only a few times so far. Thank you for your kind words about my story.

  5. What a powerful story EA! What an amazing woman. How did she get your friends to weed? The way you described it, I can see that in my head. I would be cringing and then shocked to see them on the ground. I’m so sorry for your loss. Sending caring thoughts your way.

    • Thank you. She was inspirational and the neighborhood kids all wanted to hang out in yard or house. I think many of the moms didn’t allow the kids to help out and get dirty. Maybe that’s why they’d weed?

  6. What a great mom. I’m totally on board with the faerie rings, oysters and garden. Sorry no roe. It must have been a great experience growning up. My mom sat around watching her shows and smoking.

    • Thank you. I don’t know if it’s harder if it’s unexpected — but it came out of the blue. I got reports that she was doing fine with Covid and then she died. This week with my kids has been a blessing.

Leave a Reply