If you’ve seen the commercial, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Four grandmotherly women playing cards talking about life and one has to go. She’s headed to her granddaughter’s house because she can cook Like A Mother.
It’s hilarious for all the right reasons. They’re so proper yet you know what’s up. I think it tickles me because it really embodies who we are as women. Ladies when we need to be who can flip the switch and be tough as nails when we have to, meanwhile sharing that pride in our family and letting everyone know they rock.
I’ve been fortunate to have had some good examples growing up of women who were the epitome of proper society but when the situation called for it, didn’t mince words.
I guess you’d call ’em Steel Magnolias.
Enjoy, reflect, appreciate those women in your own life who have helped make you the person you are today.
Happy Mother’s Day.
As the Mother’s Day memes pop up in my timeline and include everything from a superhero cape to elegant flowers, there’s one special picture that I posted in 2019 that is probably one of my most favorites of all time. It’s become even more meaningful as the years roll by.
It reads:
“Don’t forget to thank your mama and your mama’s mama… #generations (2+2=4 generations) #memories”
I tell my kids all the time when we’re out together, on vacation or just doing something around the house and I snap a photo, that one day they’ll be grateful for these pictures. No matter how silly or unprepared we look.
The photo above is of four generations of the women in my family – my grandma aka Grammie (I recently did a story and the grandkids called their Gma ‘Grammy’ and it really touched my heart because I haven’t heard anyone else call their grandma that in forever – thank you Dana Davis ?), my mom, my aunt, me, my niece and my daughters. It’s the original crew. The chics in our family who got things done and the next generation who will.
My grandma passed away almost 10 years ago but I tell you what, it still seems like yesterday.
While there are specific things about her – the color of her lipstick, her hairbrush, her favorite lotion (which I still use today) I can call to mind, there are other things we all did together that still make me smile and need more time for reflection. Doing ceramics with her, a hobby passed down to her from her own mother, watching her and my grandfather make spaghetti from scratch, going to church and snacking on her Wint-o-Green Lifesavers, and having dinner at Zaharias, Barnacle Bills or O’Steens, some of her favorite places in St. Augustine.
The most important was her commitment to being there for those milestones in my life. From my graduation, wedding, and building my first house, to the birth of my kids, and the passing of my son. Those moments when I was a total trainwreck and a total success. She saw it all. Dementia robbed her in her last years, but sitting with her at the end, I have to believe she remembered it all and knew she was loved.
As with many mothers and daughters, mine has gone through an evolution of sorts with my own mom. Maturity and communication as we age provide an opportunity to better understand decisions made throughout the years, and a chance for a laugh over some of the shenanigans and special memories created over a lifetime.
But today that’s neither here nor there.
Now, I’m watching my own children on the cusp of flight, knowing it won’t be much longer, the blink of an eye really, before they are mothers themselves. What will they remember? What will they pass down? What will their stories be? Will they be happy?
My story comes full circle back to my grandma, the legacy she left us, and the cherished photos of time well spent.
The women in our family have always had a strong work ethic, put our families first and tried to cultivate those connections with each other that ensure our families’ ties remain for generations to come.
I hope one day my kids will find the next (2+2=4) photo of us all together and be thankful.
Have a blessed and Happy Mother’s Day.
Danielle
P.S. Yes, we can all cook like a Mother.
