A mother’s influence on her children is funny. You love her, of course, she’s your mother after all. She gave you life, she spent years caring for you. You were her mom-reason, her life’s work. Her devotion and love were something you took for granted. When I needed anything, there she was, my mother–eager to help, even when her help wasn’t actual help but a semi crazy idea that any sane person could see was nuts.

But every once in awhile, my mother’s ideas hit a home run and everyone quietly and grudgingly realized she was pretty fucking clever.

For example: When I was little, our dog Penny had 11 puppies. (No clue why I remember the number 11.) She birthed them in the cellar of our old home. One of the puppies, eyes not open yet, fell down the drain in the cement floor. The puppy’s plaintive cries echoed loudly through the pipe into the ears of the helpless adults. The relatives told her to fill the drain with water–drown the puppy to put it out of its misery. There were plenty of other puppies anyway. My mom, watching Penny who was whining and pacing around the drain hole, was horrified.

An idea came to her. She grabbed her prized Electrolux, shoved the long hose down the drain and hit the power switch. Up came the tiny puppy, reunited with its anxiously awaiting Penny. Mom was clever. Oh yeah, she was as loyal to her animals as she was to her children.

But more often than not, despite love, my mom could irritate the absolute shit out of me. The unwelcome advice, the constant questions, the jokes and OMG she spoke in puns. Oh and that laugh after one of her jokes. Ugh. It can make you want to pull out your eyelashes, one by excruciating one. Funnily enough though, my friends thronged around her like she was some dumb ass comedian.

All this baby love aside, I had a shit show for a childhood. Not only were we poor, we were stinking poor. The type of poor neighbors pitied all the while furtively looking away. My sister and I were surrounded by pedophiles. Father, uncle, neighbor, grandfather, everyone. There was no place safe for us. It was a cesspool of abuse for me and my sister. Something that my mother didn’t notice.

I grew up composing a semi-unwritten list of things my children would never have to experience. It grew as I did. I would not, could not, be anything like my mother. That constant laugh, the irritating puns, the practical jokes and, most importantly, the hidden depression disguised by that raucous laughter and jokes.

When my son was born, Mom had “suggestions. Lots of them. They were all so very wrong. In retrospect, they probably weren’t wrong but I was defensive. First time mom power! I didn’t need suggestions, dammit. I read Dr. Spock, by God. Cover to cover. Twice. I vehemently knew what to do. Leave me alone! But the super experienced baby making machine wouldn’t, couldn’t stop. After all, like a good Catholic girl, she made a lot of little humans. And she loved babies. So she knew this shit like the proverbial back of the hand.

But like it or not, with all her faults, she’s still there alongside me. No matter how alive she isn’t, I can still feel her voice, her laugh, and those damned hugs that kept you hugged for a long time.

She died when she was 45 from a miserable, pre-effective chemo cancer. I was 21 when she moved in with me. I took care of her. When I turned 22, she died, leaving behind her youngest for me to raise alongside my own two year old.

Most of the time it’s so subtle I’m unaware of her influence. But there it is, imprinted in my soul. She was a guilt ridden strict Catholic, hence all the damn babies. Every Sunday she would walk down to church. Late. Always at least a half hour late for a one hour service. I realize now her consistent lateness was her own subconsciousness defying the heartless cruelty that was the Catholic church.

How is this affecting me as an adult? Well, I had that list of course. I tried to follow it. Like her though, I’m fiercely loyal to my family and friends. Stupidly loyal, no matter how wrong they might be. Puns? I got ‘em. I love animals. I love love love my kids, my grandkids and my great granddaughter. I walk all the time. She used to say we were ancestors of gypsies who wandered from town to town. She walked everywhere. And crap, you should hear me laugh. Or push my advice onto my kids, their kids and my grandkids.

For all of her married life, my mother was treated like shit by the relatives as well as my father. Kids are sponges so we grew up sort of scorning her, retreating from those bear hugs. I am ashamed of how I felt about my mother. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her and treated her well, but dammit, she died so soon after my teenage years, I didn’t get a chance to tell her I was ok and thank you for trying your best even when you were constantly overwhelmed by us messed up kids.

Sometimes the regret overwhelms you. Yes, there is always the losing-her grief, but when regret comes for a visit, it’s always a surprise. It hits you like a punch in the gut.

Happy birthday, Mom. Wish I had one more day with you. Or one hour. Or one minute. Or just one of those damned bear hugs. Dammit.