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.