Say you love me, you know I do

I moved away from New Mexico and all of its grime, crime and slime almost exactly 11 years ago.  I don't miss the smog, the traffic, the spanglish, the girls who insult you just because you've got that fair-freckled-skin, the DWI problem, the horrific schools or basically any of the people.  Oh, sure, I had a handful of really phenomenal friends.  Those friendships have stood the test of time.  And we did leave behind family, some of whom can travel and some cannot.  ALL of whom I miss tremendously.  But, y'know, there's just nothing quite like your Mama.  Whether you call her "mom", "mommy", "mama" or "ma", if you're at all close with your mom, I bet you know what I mean.

There have been some dark and troubled days up here in my corner of the Sisterhood.  Days where I cried or I raged or I was sick or I was crazy(er than usual).  And my Mama and I have talked through most of them.  The saddest moment of my life came not too long ago.  I watched my mom, who knew only the barest details (because I have the best Sisters on the planet, too) call every day, sometimes two or three times a day.  Each time, leaving a message.  Each time, telling me how much she loved me.  I knew it, of course.  But I also knew I couldn't play the game with her that I had been playing with virtually everyone else.  The game where I took a deep breath, put on my cheeriest, "Hello!" and then began counting seconds until we were done and I could let sorrow fall back down into my chest again.  But I'm a proud and unabashed Jersey Mama's Mama's Girl.  I would throw out a cheery "Hello!" and she would say "what's wrong".  Then we'd both cry.  So I bypassed her calls.  She knew I was okay (again, Sisters), at least in the sense that I was still breathing, still putting one foot in front of the other.  But I realized something in those wretched days.  I was too fucking sad to talk to my mom.  And I can't think of a lower form of sadness.  Luckily, Irish spirits may never fully heal, but they do eventually bounce back enough to talk to their mamas.

I'm giving this Sing-A-Long Sunday over to my Jersey Mama.  That Broadway-lovin', peace-lovin' hippie is the reason my kids and I sing all day long and we have such weird fuckng taste in music.  This here?  A song from my wedding, LOL, but still one of my all time favorites from one of my favorite love stories .  Enjoy.  He's no Michael Crawford, but it's definitely not too shabby, either.