The Woman Who Bore Me

If I were more organized, I would have written the following words this Mother's Day:

How to describe my mother? The first thing that stands out is her peculiar name: Jutta. I recall being hopelessly confused in grade three when our Social Studies class discussed "Utah."

"But that's my mother!" I protested. Even now, the ripple of laughter among my classmates still echoes in my mind.

I gradually learned that it is healthier to mock one's mother than to defend her, and I have since called the Pregnancy Care Centre where she works asking for "Jud-uh" or "Joo-ta." There's always a pregnant pause (no pun intended), and then the tired voice on the other line says, "You must mean Jutta."

My mother is a whirling dervish of sorts--though she's neither Muslim nor a proponent of dancing. In my early years her energy was directed into domestic projects (e.g. constructing gingerbread houses or icing the names of my classmates onto Valentine's cookies). Later, she became obsessed with aerobics. Now her passions include diagnosing people with borderline personality disorder, placing stacks of books on every surface of the house, and behaving like a stalker at Starbucks in her endless quest for on-sale merchandise.

Though half-crazy like every other Wittmeier (we're an eccentric lot), my mother has some amazing attributes. She is opinionated (a maddening quality when you're her 15-year-old daughter, mind you!), a humanitarian, and exceedingly generous. She is there whenever I have the itch to convince someone to sponsor a World Vision child (she has over seven). Best of all, she despises those dull social gatherings where people are forced to endure idle chatter--showers and teas and the like. What grief I have been spared!

Like all good mothers, mine can be trained. My brother Brent and I, both Pavlovians, grew weary of her peculiar habit of breathing loudly through her nose to express irritation. So, naturally, we perfected our own nasal exhalations to accompany hers. She couldn't help but laugh--and be forever cured.

We always enjoyed shopping with her as well. As young children we would set "traps" in department stores by placing articles of clothing on the edge of the clothes racks. Jutta (or some hapless stranger) would walk absentmindedly amongst the racks--and blammo!--hangers and clothing were strewn all over the floor. Equally entertaining was our practice of sneaking up behind to nudge poor mother repeatedly with a grocery cart.

I owe a lot of happy memories to my mother. I'm still amused when I think of how she apologized to the fire hydrant she rudely walked into. I get nostalgic when I think of her donning "Santa boppers"--blinking headgear she would wear when distributing Christmas gifts. And even now, I get just a little choked up and homesick when I see a Starbuck's mug on sale.

Happy belated Mother's Day.