A Love Letter to My Mother

A Love Letter to My Mother
by Liz Martin

I often get asked why I named my business Mama Jane Massage, or sometimes I need to clarify when I get an email that starts “Hello Jane.” My mother’s name is Linda, but her middle name is Jane. My sister likes to come up with cute nicknames for people and when we were teenagers my sister started calling her Mama Jane. (For more examples, I became Sister Green and my father is Dad Ed; I’m still Sister Green, even after changing my last name to Martin.) I wanted to name my business after my mother because I am where I am today because of my parents’ love and support, and Dad Ed Massage doesn’t flow as well as Mama Jane. Also, since I am a doula and I specialize in prenatal and postpartum massage, I wanted my business name to reflect that, while paying homage to one of my favorite people.

To give you more reasons why I love my mother so, and in honor of Mother’s Day, please enjoy these little stories about the original Mama Jane:

Many years ago my sister moved in with a couple named Joe & Matt and they had a huge house-warming party. At one point during this party, I walked into the living room to see my mother sitting in a chair surrounded by at least 10 young guys. They were fawning all over her – getting her drinks, holding her hands, admiring her rings and bracelets, someone was laying his head on her knee. Why? Because she was kind and loving and she looked each one of them in the eye and made them feel seen and heard and loved. And these dudes had just met her. Motherly love oozes out of her and draws people to her, and she just makes people feel warm and fuzzy.

One Halloween, I showed up at my parents’ house and decided I was going to dress up as my mother. So, without telling anyone, I put on her flowy robes she called dresses, put multiple rings on each finger, a flowy scarf around my neck, a giant hat on my head, lit a cigarette and told my sister to make me a gin & tonic. AND EVERYONE THERE KNEW IMMEDIATELY WHO I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE and burst out laughing. Including my mother.

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When I was in the Peace Corps in Tonga, my parents and sister came to visit me for two weeks. We spent a couple nights in my village, and there happened to be a party and feast happening on the school campus where I lived, so we went. As per usual at a feast, there was a young girl doing a tau’olunga, a traditional Tongan dance. During these dances the older women dance behind her for support but also just for fun and to act silly. My mother, being the good sport she is, went right up there and was dancing around with the older Tongan women, doing her “Linda Green” dance, which includes waving her hands above her head. Everyone there was delighted that a palangi (AKA white lady) was participating in their dance traditions, even if she was dancing to her own beat. The next day, my dad was drinking kava with the town noble (AKA fanciest man in town, who was not at the feast, but word spreads fast in Tonga), and he said to my dad, “So, your wife likes to dance…?” to which my father just said, “Um, yes.” And for the next month or so, I was asked over and over, “So, you mother likes to dance?…” So she’s basically famous in my village.

Once when I was in college, my dad was on a work trip for a few weeks. For some reason I was in Denver one night and I went over to their house unannounced (ah, the days before cell phones). When I opened the door, my mother, who used to lose her mind when I left dirty clothes on the floor or dishes in the sink, was in her pajamas eating a bagel and two ears of corn. There were dirty towels on the bathroom floor, dirty dishes all over the kitchen, the trash hadn’t been taken out, there was basically crap everywhere and no food in the house, hence her dinner of bagels and corn. As I opened my mouth to inquire about the state of the house, she just looked at me unapologetically and said, “your dad’s been gone a long time.”

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She loves to use ridiculous and unnecessarily long hash tags on her Facebook posts. The following are actual hashtags from Linda Green’s Facebook page; they are best enjoyed out of context:

My mother has always loved chickens…
#chickenhumor
#chickenjumpingforjoy
#chickendanceforreal
#chickenmemories
#chickenshaveabadrap
#haveyoueverseenachickenhatch
#lovethisbecauseofCHICKEN
#pianorecitalforachicken
#yupachickenonaswing
#chickenpeoplebeenwaitingonthis
#blessthoselittlechickensforhelpingcombatloneliness

But sometimes she also acknowledges other poultry…
#duckduckdog
#birdbirdbirdbirdistheword
#fairwarningbirdies
#owlalwaysloveowls

While maintaining affection for other animals…
#alwaysannouncecows
#seahorsesmakingwhoopie
#youotterloveotters
#lovemamasandbabiesthatarepolar
#yourfurbabiesareconfusedbyyourtardiness
#orwhenthecatjumpsonthefullbladder
#whateverkindofweirdassspiderthisisherwebdesignisamazing
#onceuponatimetherewasahippoandarhinowhowerebesties

She can sometimes be quite random…
#babyfloats
#thankgodfortoothpaste
#witcheshouseholdhints
#maybeafteranedible
#andwhatiswrongwithbatshitcrazy
#meandsomeofmyfriendsarealreadyfreakinweirdandfabulous
#besuretohaveenoughtimetoundowhennaturecalls
#ijustsaidinmyheadwhatdoesbolognahavetodowithanything

But has unending love for all her peeps…
#thatwouldbemypeeps
#lovetomypeepsyouknowwhoyouare
#happythanksgivingtomypeepsyouknowwhoyouare

For these, I have no words…
#iooohsolovetheoceanandthesoftsandyplacewherethewatermeetstheland
#thingsdonotalwaysturnoutourwaybutnotallisloststillfightforyourrightsthistooshallpass

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In college I helped to organize a sexual assault awareness event with Inga Muscio, the author of Cunt and general feminist goddess. (Have you read that book? You should read that book.) My dear mother attended this event and proceeded to ruin all of my feminist street cred by cornering Inga and telling her she shouldn’t have named her book “Cunt,” because she’d be too embarrassed to read it in front of people on the bus. A) I don’t think my mother had ridden a bus in 30 years, B) YOU’RE TALKING TO INGA MUSCIO, LIKE, SHE DOESN’T CARE ABOUT SHOCKING PEOPLE WITH THE WORD CUNT. Anyway, my mother enjoys ruining my street cred.

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When I had a meltdown after learning Santa isn’t real (yes, I was that child), she talked to me in the bathroom for an hour while our guests waited in the kitchen. She loves to scare people, and make inappropriate jokes, and she always gets up and says something kind about someone at their funeral. She writes sweet poems about looking at the moon, drinking coffee on the front porch, and how much she loves my father. She knew Milli Vanilli lip synched months before they returned their Grammys in shame.

She was present at the birth of my son, and sat quietly in the background unless I asked her to squeeze my hips or hold my hand. She followed me to the hospital when I was transferred because of my hemorrhage, and sat quietly in the corner while the midwives and nurses saved my life. She, along with my sister and dad, fed my newborn baby my colostrum and donor milk every two hours for some of his first days of life while I was in the hospital having a procedure on my heart. My bones are made from her bones, my blood is made from her blood. She loves me more than her own life, and she taught me how to love my son more than my own life.

#MamaJane
#WhyILoveMyMother
#happymothersdaytoallmypeepsyouknowwhoyouare