The Kellehers

It is my sixteenth birthday. I have never seen the big deal. Who wants to get older? I sit at the table and wait for some presents. The convoluted wrapping job
(tissue paper of course, always looking out for the environment) of the gift my mom just handed me floods my mind’s eye with a vivid image. I see my mom rushing through any store she can find. She is on a mission. Her medium-length blonde hair is naturally crimped and swings forward and backward in sync to her motion. Her round face encompasses her flawless skin and tired eyes and makes for a brilliant profile. She is looking for any miscellaneous items that might just suffice as a birthday gift. As she rushes through the store and picks up random memorabilia her outstanding logic (do not forget she has a PhD) kicks in; she thinks to herself oh! I can say I got her the jewelry box because she always has little, petty, earrings lying around just big enough for my cokattoo to play with and then choke on and die. This is when she rolls her eyes and sighs in pure disenchantment. A customer will then look up at her from across the store-via the consuming nosiness that she tends to arouse in strangers. He will first see her as a fifteen-year-old girl but a second glance will confirm she is in fact older. The moment she sees the head turn (she does have flawless vision and superb peripherals) she immediately displays her instinctual snide look and turns her back. You would think she was wearing some sort of dark cape to coincide with such a haunting look. What is her super power? The evil eye giving her the incredible ability to shoot straight up into the air from five foot three to eight foot two, warding off any palpable threat. She continues to think to herself: AND it has a frame on the lid so she can put a picture in it- she loves pictures! As she continues to rush through the store more random objects suddenly become the perfect gifts in the world. It is funny to picture my mom in Hallmark.

Last minute. Those are the moments my mom disproves all physicists and is able to somehow extend the warp of time. She is all about proving people wrong. She has it down to a science.

She brings out the cake. It is kind of falling apart, a little brown and rough around the edges and made from scratch and all organic materials. Although a renowned chemist, her PhD has yet to help with her baking. Each present has an overwhelming amount of thought put into it but not so much on the time factor. When someone’s birthday comes around, the average person will ask the ever-popular question, what do you think they will want? They will break this down and conclude at a reasonable gift to purchase. My mom is more of a bottom to top processor (it is why she is amazing at scrabble). She will first purchase the gift and then decide why they should want it. One year, my mom bought me an ipod holder that attaches to your arm-- “but mom, I don’t run.” “well you should.” My mom is not one for gifts. It is not through these purchases that she illustrates her love. Instead she sends me on trips to Costa Rica where I can study primates and save the rainforest. Instead she accepts me for all the decisions I have made and tries her best to understand me. Instead I can tell her anything and trust she will not judge me. But what would I do without the miscellaneous gifts?

“Mistakes have been made. Others will be blamed.” Before completely comprehending the fact that my next gift from my mom was a notebook with this quote on the top, the only thing to first consume my brain is my mother’s laugh as she watches the gift reveal itself. Her ear-piercing eruption of laughter has an innate ability to actually say words: “ARENTISOWISEFUNNYANDCREATIVE.” It is not often that anyone else (besides her own wittiness) can be the one to catalyze the cackle. After sixteen years I no longer have to look at the faces around me for a reaction to my mothers outburst. I know what I will see. Wide eyes and the anxious search for someone to meet eye contact with. My sister and I happen to be very practiced at it and waste no time locking eyes. Such eye contact used to spell the word embarrassment but I have recently been learning how to spell the word pride. There is one thing that is truly guaranteed. Everyone in the room will have a smile; a genuine grin. This woman is the easiest person to fight with and the hardest person not to love.

I never met my mom’s parents, it is a big part of who she is but it is missing. I have dreams of meeting them all the time. The images are so vivid I sometimes feel that I do know them. The continuous dream of my grandfather slowly rising on an escalator; first I see his head, then his shoulders, terminating as his feet appear. He walks toward me and we hug as if we have been waiting for this moment our entire lives. His wife follows, and she holds me the same way. As I reflect in consciousness I realize the reality of the situation; if they are anything like my mother, such a penetrating and emotional hug would not be their style. This does not stop the feeling of their arms wrapped around me from lingering as I wake up. They understand me, just like my mom. I imagine my grandmother with the same tough and incisive will as my mother. I can see my grandfather sitting on the couch, consumed by silence and peace, lost in his seven levels of thought. My grandmother hovers over him, frantically moving around the house sparked by anger. Every word that falls from her mouth is a little bit louder than the previous. Her rage could have been stirred by anything as simple as a dirty dish. He remains calm, this is the woman he married and she is the easiest person to love. It is a spitting image of my parents. Although it took me long enough to learn how to spell my mother’s maiden name, I have still always been more of a Kelleher.

Days after my birthday my mom is cooking in the kitchen. The kitchen is full of her ingenius contraptions. There is the round metal hanging device of which our pots and pans suspend from that is attached to a pulley that is attached to a string that is tied to a cleat that can be untied and levied vertically. No one does this. There is the paper towel dispenser hanging down from the lamps. Hanging off of the paper towel dispenser, is of course the most fitting place for my mom’s old, tattered, and quite creepy stuffed and sewn witch doll. As she cooks, I sit at the dining room table next to her. I am probably talking to her about nonsense. Whenever I am in the mood to talk, she is not. Whenever she is in the mood to talk, I am not. I hear a large crash. The pot she was reaching for fell to ground. “SKYE- WHY ARE YOU DISTRACTING ME !? YOU MADE ME DROP A POT” I choose not to entertain this comment with a response. Mistakes will be made, others will be blamed. Should’ve used the pulley.

I was once asked by a friend to describe my mom. Easy enough- the only problem was they did not happen to have all the time in the world. I needed to somehow wrap up this complex woman in lame terminology. As my friend stared into my eyes and I racked my brain searching for ways to conclude such a force of nature into a simple description, it came to me. You’re pretty much looking at her, I said.

As my great grandfather said to my grandfather, and my grandfather said to my father, ‘Be careful—It’s a long line of difficult women.’

I am the next generation of crazy bitch.

K-E-L-L-E-H-E-R.

P-R-I-D-E.