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Mother's Relish
Giggles and Hugs Before Supper
By Julia Rosien
I watched as her modest giggles turned to a deep belly laugh as she scooped up my little brother. Her mirth infected us all and we sat there on the impossibly hot August day laughing until our sides ached. She put my brother's tiny hands into the relish and chuckled as green goo squished between his fingers. She asked me if I wanted to feel the relish and help her mix it. I jumped up and sank my hands deep into the cool greenness.
Mom put the relish into the fridge and thanked us for helping her. Then she took us both outside and turned the sprinkler on. We spent the rest of the afternoon giggling and rolling in the grass. Dad peered out of his shed at the noise and his eyebrows flew up to his hairline at the sight of my mom running through the sprinkler. He didn't say a word as he stepped back into the shed and quietly closed the door behind him. The best part of the whole day was the way Mom kissed me that night when she tucked me into bed. She loved me more than her precious relish.
My mother taught me many things as I grew. She taught me manners and respect for other people. She taught me how to hem a pair of pants and bake a cake. She taught me how to apply mascara and clip my nails. But the most important thing she taught me is to always be able to laugh at myself. Standing in that kitchen, hot and tired, with her children getting on her nerves, she gave in to the hilarity of the situation.
I often think back to that day. What did she think as she stared out the window, growing more frustrated by the second? Did she see her life lost in diapers and canning and exactly like her mother's? Did she see my father roaring up in his bright red '55 Studabaker at the church dance? Did she see him fly out of the car and claim his right to be at her side? Did she ever think the step toward him would lead her to this hot kitchen and three whiny children?
