How I Met My Mother

For eight television seasons, Bob Saget has narrated the story of five friends in their late twenties and early thirties living in New York city. At the center of this story is a hopeless romantic bachelor in a search for "the one." As it is being told to his two children with the advantage of hindsight through a series of flashbacks, we know everything about the outcome of this fairy tale except for who their mother is.

While there are some similarities between myself and the Ted Mosby character, the one obvious difference is that I currently do not have children of my own to tell the story of how I met their mother. I can, however, tell the story of how I met MY mother.



"Nice to meet you, Mom."

I first met the woman I would later call, "Mom," in a hospital room in Worcester, Massachusetts almost thirty-five years ago. After nine months in a womb enjoying the shelter and safety I would spend much of the next thirty-five years longing for, I made my descent into the world.

Being a bit groggy from my trip, I do not have any lucid memories of that day but, thanks to the two-page spread in the August 1978 edition of the Worcester Magazine, I have substantial photographic evidence of our first date.

And from the cutting of the umbilical cord to the cutting of birthday cakes, and from my first day of preschool to my college graduation, this woman would always be there for me and, along the way, I would learn a few things about her as well as from her.

As a nurse, it is part of my mother's professional instincts to be thoughtful, caring, and kind. Of course, as a parent, it doesn't hurt when you can exhibit these traits as well as she always has. My childhood is littered with memories of times where she was thinking of others or putting someone else's needs ahead of her own. A personal favorite were the donuts and bagels she would bring home for breakfast on the weekends after working the night shift at the hospital (we always appreciated when Dad was not left to do the cooking).

Then there were the countless rides to practices and games, or to work. As well as the occasional, "Hey Mom, I forgot my uniform at home, can you come bring it to me at school," phone calls that were never ignored. There was also once a, "Mom, I know it's 1:00 in the morning and snowing, but I am drunk and may - or may not - be just leaving what I think might have been - or soon will be - a crack house," phone call made from the payphone outside of a gas station.

An added benefit of having a healthcare professional as your mother is that I don't think I've ever had an ailment or injury that I have not first gone to her for for a free consultation. (Except for the time in college I put my fist through a window in an alcohol-fueled momentary lapse of judgement) On the other hand, it did make it difficult as a child to feign a sickness in order to stay home from school, but I always found success in tugging at her heartstrings with the rubbing-my-stomach-while-wiping-away-non-existent-tears-from-my-eyes move. (patent pending)


While I, myself, sometimes blur the line that separates loyalty from complacency - am I loyal to my job, or have I just not looked for anything different? - the loyalty my mother has always shown to her family is nothing short of - in the words of Barney Stinson - "legendary." Over the years, my family has been torn apart geographically, but I know that each one of us still resides comfortably in the heart of my mother. And, despite the 400 mile trip it would take to do so, I know that if I ever needed her to be by my side, there would be no hesitation on her part.

And while she may no longer be able to physically stand behind me, I know that I will always have the support of my mother in whatever I do. In my spectacularly average career in sports that spanned from the ages of eight to eighteen, my mother was always there in the stands to cheer on me and my teammates, to heckle the umpires whose performances she felt were less than stellar, and to yell at the Little League coach with whom she had various disagreements (he also happened to be her husband).

As a college graduate with a $130,000 diploma collecting dust in my closet as I went to work everyday as a waiter at a mid-level dining establishment, my mother never once made me feel like I was the disappointment that I thought I had become. And to this day, her unconditional support has never wavered. As I somewhat halfheartedly pursue a future in writing, I know that what I publish on this site, or post as a Facebook status update will always generate at least one read, "like," or positive comment from my biggest fan.


Of course, the sense of humor needed for her to appreciate or enjoy much of my writing is the same that she has used to survive in our family. With all that we have gone through as a unit - the good times along with the bad - it has always been vital to be able to laugh at yourself as well as at others.

As it often does, time makes fools of us all when looking at old video footage of Christmases passed and photographs taken on family vacations or at birthday parties. I am sure that one day, the same will be said of the new millennium, but it seems as though the 80's and early 90's was nothing but a cruel joke when it comes to the hairstyles and fashion it nurtured, and my poor mother - always taking it in stride like the trooper that she is - seemed to be the butt of that joke many times.


Lastly, along with years of late-night viewing of the Food Network, I can thank my mother for instilling in me, on some subconscious level, my interest in cooking and baking. While she may no longer have the time to do so, my mother was always at the stove preparing a delicious home-cooked dinner for her husband and four children. And in all the birthday parties of my childhood, I do not remember the cake ever being anything other than the sheet cake made in the kitchen in the shape of the jersey of my favorite team or some other kid-friendly theme.


If I ever do have kids and I sit them down to tell the story of how I met their mother, they will hear about the assorted history of girls and women that will have come and gone in my life. And, possibly, the one that will have turned out to be my wife will be that one that was always so caring and selfless. Or, maybe, it will be that one I will have told them about that was so supportive and always there for me. Or it might be that one with the great sense of humor that always put a smile on my face.

But if I am truly lucky enough to have found her, it might just be that one that embodied all of those things. Just like my mother.


"And that, kids, is how I met my mother."

Happy . . . wait for it . . . Mother's Day!!