As a little kid, I didn’t know what my mom’s real name was. I didn’t know any better.
She was simply, mom.
She was the 5 foot tall, spunky, cute, little Mexican lady who when I came home from a brutal day of playing marbles on the playground, had the house smelling of fresh, hand-made, warm tortillas, some sort of awesome Mexican dish (with my personal favorite being red-chile enchiladas or chicken mole and Spanish rice) and a dinner table surrounded by her ten “pollitos” or little chicks.
I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know that by the time I came along, my mom had carried the pleasurable burden of nine other children virtually by herself. I didn’t know that for a while my mom was working two jobs cleaning hotels and cooking simply to provide enough income to help feed everyone and keep the house warm during the piercing cold nights of a Colorado winter. I didn’t know that she was going through heartbreak and night’s filled with anxiety having to wonder whether my brother Jr. was coming back home from round one with Saddam with his magnetic smile and charming personality in one piece or in a box draped over with the American flag. I didn’t know that while my brothers and sisters were out at the latest Quiñcenera or while I was sitting in the basement pouting because I didn’t get the latest WWE action figure, my mom was doing laundry, scrubbing down the kitchen and waking up at 4:30am to prepare lunch for my dad that day.
As the years passed, my five older brothers and four older sisters moved out, married and had kids (way too many if you ask me) and began to build a life of their own. Each one of them carrying a little bit of my mom in them. Her compassion, love, strength, cooking skills, and relentless hard work radiating from her through each one of us as the sun radiates her rays to warm the earth’s soul.
I can’t help but to think that through each one of us and our children, my mom will truly live forever.
Today, as our spunky, cute, little Mexican lady, with a smile that can light up 20 rooms, turns the grand age of 70, two words come to mind:
Love and appreciation.
Mom, we love the way you loved us unconditionally and to the fullest. Even though we were (are, in my case) some bad-ass kids at times, your immense love for us is always felt.
Mom, we love you for making the best damn tamales and mole in town, and for always having a place at the table for us when we needed it the most.
Mom, we love you for always keeping the most charming and elegant garden in the neighborhood. When things get rough, seeing your heaven sent red roses blooming makes everything better again.
Mom, we love you for single-handedly raising six amazing men and four beautiful women, without ever once uttering a complaint. You put your boots to our asses every now and then, but we are all better for it.
Mom, we love you because through the divorces, the family losses, the days of food stamps, the inter-sibling fighting, the break-ups, and all the other up’s, down’s and curveballs that life launched at our family, one thing was always certain, we could always count on you to be there, standing tall, all 5 feet of you, smiling, leading us and marching forward like the greatest generals do in battle.
Dear mama, to quote the immortal Pac, truly, “there are no words that can express how we feel, but our plan is to show you that we understand.”
Mom, you are appreciated, thank you for the last 70 years.
Feliz Cumpleaños, nuestra chaparrita! Que Dios me la bendiga con muchos mas!
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