Mumma Mia

Happy Mother’s Day, everyone!

For this week’s post, I’d like to tell everyone just how amazing my Mumma is. Let’s start with a little history lesson.

March 2, 1989. The Melville twins were born.

imageWe were planned (or at least a birth was planned — though twins run in the family, so my mother must have expected she would end up with two). The doctor told my parents that we would be boys, so for the first year or so Rebecca and Samantha (not Joshua and Samuel) were tomboys.

My parents divorced when my sister and I were very little. We could never afford any sort of daycare, so my mom taught us the route from school to her place of work, and every day after school Becky and I would take our routine journey to play with glass figurines, bean bag frogs, and seasonal flags (my mother worked at a gift shop). Eventually we moved to Yarmouth, and Mom got a job as a secretary at the church we went to (during which Becky and I played with our pog collection and the bells they had in the storage closet), then moved on up and started working at a bank — a vast improvement, though not perfect. When I finally hit age 14 and was able to get my own after-school job, I always made it a point to have money in my account, just in case a bill needed to be paid.

As a kid, there was this concept that was passed around of a “cool mom” — the kind that didn’t embarrass her children. Looking back, I realize that I was always embarrassed that my mom was the cool mom. It is only as you grow that having a cool mom becomes a cool concept. My mom and I have had our ups and downs… every family has those. But luckily, I’ve had enough sense to hang on tight to my family.

I take after my mom in that respect (and others). She was always the closest of her sisters to our grandparents’ house — some chalk it up to the fact that she’s the baby of the family, but I like to attribute it to her fierce loyalty. She now lives with them as they age. She’s the woman I get my chirpy personality from — she’s full of life, she’s friendly, and she wears her emotions on her sleeve. She’s also the woman I get my nerdiness from, and I am ever-grateful for that.

Mom, thanks for braiding my hair when I was little, and thanks for letting me get your hairbrush stuck in your hair when I wanted to be like you. Thanks for breaking it kindly to me that that fuzzy memory of seeing Brent Spiner at a Star Trek convention as a child wasn’t just a weird dream. Thanks for reading to me every night, and thanks for allowing me to take that bear puppet out of the library so many times. Thanks for leaving stacks of scrap paper around the house so I could steal them and write stories. Thanks for coming into my room, crying, when we ended a conversation with shouts. Thanks for putting up with the painted mannequin in the basement. Thanks for only being willing to watch an episode of Firefly if I watched an episode of Sherlock. Thanks for giving me a childhood based on trust instead of dominion. Thanks for never quashing my free spirit, no matter how bizarre a child I was, and telling me that money would never been an issue in life if I put my heart into it. Thanks for being my mom.

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