A common way for my mother to introduce me, her middle child, inevitably included some variation of this amusing anecdote. Picture me, at age 5. I'll give you a second so you can imagine how adorable that is. In the aftermath of an incorrect act by this juvenile scamp, a rebellious doing of I don't remember what, provoked protest from my mama.
She asked me, "Brock, why are you giving me such a hard time?"
My precocious reply was: "Because, mom, that's my job."
Lord knows I worked hard at it. My intentional (and unintentional) adolescent disobedience distracted her from the ease of married middle class adulthood enough for her to dub me the "strong-willed child." Never doing my homework. Staying up way too late and sleeping the day away. Talking about poop at the dinner table. Letting junk and other debris pile up in my room like it was the trash compactor in Star Wars. Fighting with my brother and sister like we were wild, rabid monkeys. Drawing instead of doing whatever it was she asked me to do. Never, ever doing my homework except for that one year so I could graduate on time. Announcing my plans to become a cat psychic. Ruining Christmas that one year. Even more extensive discussions about doo-doo at meal time. Mentioning Star Wars in her eulogy. And so on.
At school age, these acts would sometimes result in a shouting match, that when witnessed by my Texan friends, caused confusion. They, learned in the genteel ways of southern etiquette were often unaccustomed to that sort of display between mother and son. How could we speak to each other like that? We said what we meant and we said it loud. How could we do that and expect it to get back to normal?
It was because of the way she loved me. When we disagreed, no matter how vocally, there was never any risk of damaging our relationship. Because of the kind of love she had for me. Because of the kind of love I learned from her example and knew how to return. It was unconditional.
My aging into adulthood saw the directing discipline diminish to give way to a deep, and dependable friendship. There was never a person who was easier for me to talk to. When long-time friends complained that they couldn't get a read on me, she knew what I was thinking before I did. I'm an amazing liar because I had to work so hard to fool her. I always knew how proud she was of what I had done, and of the potential I hadn't yet realized. I never had any doubt that I was loved. In spite of, and because of, who I am.
I would like to thank her for the Foster traits she provided me, genetically. The tendency to be artistic, the slim build. If you dig through old, incredibly old photos, you can see what a beauty she was, and why it should be no surprise that I am so good looking. Dad, you done good. I would like to thank her for saving me, by heredity, from the Rizy ears, and the big Rizy butt, though my brother was not so lucky on that last one. The Foster male hairline, not so much.
I would like to thank her for being an upright example: Considerate, respectful, affectionate, honest, devoted. For loving like Christ did. For not only saying it and meaning it, but proving it by action. For instilling the value of familial bonds. Like she was tight with her brother and sister, I am tight with mine. I would like to thank her for raising two other brilliant, beautiful, and hilarious kids, so I didn't have to look far to find two best friends.
Cancer is ruthless and destructive, a terrifying disease. I shouldn't even dignify it by speaking its name, but I have to mention it. First, to attempt to state to you how proud I am of my father, for staying by Mom's side, literally, through this horrifying struggle. For doing things for her and seeing his wife in a state that no man should ever have to. It was as remarkable as he is, for me to see how thoroughly he honored the loving commitment he made nearly thirty-five years ago. I must also mention it because of this: I want you to forget it. When you remember Lynn Elizabeth Foster Rizy, leave cancer out of it. Don't entertain the anger you have for it taking her too early. Express it and move on. Don't let the sadness linger when you think of her suffering. Instead: Remember the way she laughed. Remember her wry smile. Remember the way she loved.
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beeow's journal
