“I want to quit my job.” I said these words to my husband through tears one evening. He knew it was coming. I had been unhappy for years. In fact, I hadn’t wanted to return to this particular job after the death of my daughter. 2008 had been a horrifying year, financially and otherwise. It is hard to lose the sorts of things we lost: a child, my health, our home, both of our jobs. Recessions are not for sissies. So, eventually, I had returned to that career. It was as awful as I remembered, but a home to rent and the smell of food on the table was more important than my feelings. Yet, there we sat, in 2010, living in that rented home we could not afford to buy, driving cars purchased more for impressing our neighbors than commuting, and working hours that left us impossibly strained and exhausted. Welcome to America, huh? From the outside, we looked fine. If you got close, however, the strains and cracks and imperfections were showing, like a China pitcher with a chip. Just turn it to the back of the cabinet. Hide it. That conversation netted us more than just a game plan to escape. It led to a chain of events that culminated in owning Fancy, the best truck in the free world.
I don’t care how amazing of a mother you are. It doesn’t matter if you keep your home impeccably clean, maintain a well-stocked pantry, or how many of your kiddo’s friends find sanctuary in your living room on the weekends. Your children will find and highlight all of your shortcomings. This is especially true for mothers and daughters. I won’t pretend to understand the lengths a daughter will go to in regard to finding fault in the way a mom does things. Family experts talk long and hard about how tough it is when young adult children have that first epiphany proving their parents are just people who don’t know everything and who do make tons of mistakes. I’ll tell you what’s worse. It’s that first time a parent recognizes that disappointed look on a child’s face. We see the pedestal crumbling beneath us, but there is no time to escape. The jig is up. How will they ever trust us again, now that they understand we’ve been lying all these years with our claims of having every answer? At least, this was how things panned out between my mother and me. I kept a mental list of all the things she did and was – things I did not want to repeat. I will never tell uncouth jokes and be loud. I will never storm out of conversations when I don’t get my way. I will never wear Rocky Mountain blue jeans with Roper boots. I will never drive a white truck. Ah, but the best laid plans of mice and of men – aren’t they full of twists and turns?
Let’s venture back to that long ago job conversation. My husband shocked me by forcing me to sit down and work on a plan of action. I did not want to plan, only to snap my fingers and have the world fall in place at my feet. These were hard decisions. Living below one’s means is never attractive. We could buy a fixer upper. We could trade in our cars for budget friendly commuters. We could stop eating out, stop buying things, stop paying other people to mow our yard. That is how we found ourselves serendipitously driving by the home we live in today, a little worse for the wear but with lots of promise. The things that inexplicably fell into place would stun the most critical audience. Boom – we had an affordable place to live. Sure, there were no kitchen cabinets and the shower was in a tacked on room that also hosted a pantry, washer/dryer, and toilet, but you know what they say about beggars, right? Soon, we were scouting out flea markets for the things that would no longer come from Target. That’s when we saw a car lot, deep in southeast Texas, in someone’s front yard. That led to a conversation that led to an auto auction that led to me cruising the streets of Forney in (you guessed it) a white cab-and-ahalf old, decrepit Ford truck, nearly identical to my mother’s. It was a jagged little pill to swallow. The truck stunk, literally, with dried rivulets of spit out tobacco covering the doors and floorboards. The seats had those deep cracks in the leather than make you sort of gag when the backs of your bare legs touch them. But, the engine was strong despite the 250,000 miles on the odometer. Best of all, it was mine – no car payment, no fear of future affordability. I knew, if I gave her just one chance, she’d never let me down. I named her Fancy. Also, I promptly quit my job.
Momma is gone now. I grapple with the things I thought and the attitudes I expressed. I was often an ungrateful daughter. I get it now. While it’s probably too little too late, I think momma knows. We are all just out here doing our best as mothers, as parents. The veil comes down eventually. Our children learn that hard truth. We have no idea what we’re doing, nor did our parents before us. Fancy the truck will go down in history as the best vehicle I ever owned. She gave me over 50k miles before I sold her. She took me back and forth to Houston on an appliance delivery mission for my son. She hauled many pieces of furniture found in random ditches. She deposited me at countless wedding venues, my toolbox and decorating accoutrements in tow. I am proud to have driven an old Ford truck like my mom. I’m even prouder to tell uncouth jokes and make grand exits. But, I will NEVER wear Rocky Mountain blue jeans. You can take that to the bank.
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