Winding the Family Cuckoo Clock

So there I was on the edge of a cliff hanger and time abruptly stopped to have a nervous breakdown on me. It was Monday and we all know how Monday's can be! I think I forgot to wind the cuckoo clock!

Life is like a soap opera cliff hanger and nervous breakdowns are insane. All I know is that I heard the telephone ring and I woke up way too fast. The clock read 5:25 a.m. and the caller was chattering away a mile a minute.

It looks like "the voice" was back in my life. The voice, being my mother's landlord and best friend, needed a little help from me. Could I please have a talk with Lori? It seems that my mother was two days late on her rent and Kathleen had enough of her.

"I'm sorry for calling so early. I wanted to catch you before you went to work." The voice said.

Kathleen Mason, like my dear mother, needed to be on estrogen pills and that's the honest truth. Then again, so many of my dreams had to do with hanging on the edge and I suspected that I, too, needed some sort of mood stabilizer.

At age-22, I needed a vacation from the family drama and off the roller coaster. I had a 44-year old divorced mother who wasn't acting responsible. It had been this way, ever since her husband Dan left two years ago. The real reason that my father left had a lot to do with another woman coming around.

The Chicago winter snow isn't microwavable friendly or worth the effort of pushing a defrost button. Driving ten miles in enemy wind isn't a fun ride. Parking my old beat up pickup truck in front of my neurotic mother's apartment complex isn't on my "to do" list.

It's what good daughters do for their relatives though. I told "the voice" that I'd stop by my mother's place around 7 a.m., before I hightailed to my wonderful job, and worked. I was to clock in at, no later than 9 a.m., and pretend I loved being a cashier at the grocery store.

I wasn't feeling super sociable and neither was my Persian cat, Feathers. Feathers was a milk loving, slightly neurotic cat and I loved her. She hated mornings but she loved running from room-to-room in our apartment on 56th Street. We made a good team. My 27-year old boyfriend, Jason, loved Feathers and I was a happy camper.

When I walked in my mom's apartment, I made it clear that I wasn't staying. In fact, I had my car keys in my coat pocket and, if I had to, I'd make a run for it. The question was, "Did I want to eat some french toast with the woman who raised me?" No.

"No?"

"Mom, I have to get to work." I said, as I sat down in her kitchen, adjusting the chair for comfort and watching her cook. She was having a bad hair day, she said. I wondered why. The dawn had barely cracked and she was having a bad day? How so?

"Look, Melanie. I told Kathleen I needed an extra day or two to come up with the rent. You'd think she'd give an inch, it being I've known her for half my life now." The two ladies had met in High School and stuck together like glue. It only made sense that my mother would move into the apartment complex that Kathleen managed.

Mother was a tad bit behind schedule and she needed comfort and understanding. Her philosophy was that her nails had to be done and shopping was her call in life. After being married to that rat, Dan Wickers for twenty years, she felt she deserved to accept life's invitation to dance.

As it was, mother and I were two short people living in a tall world. We were under 5'5" tall, thin, and had the same blue eyes. Mother's hair was blonde, colored and highlighted. My hair was a lighter brown and longer than hers.

I was born in 1980 and mom was born in the Fifties. Let's just say that our similarities didn't at all add up to our differences. As much as I hate to say it, my father ran off with another woman simply to get away from her. I couldn't blame him.

"Life may be an invitation to the dance but you need to take some dancing lessons, mom." I said.

"Daughter, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Mama, you told me something similar when I was a 14-year old. I wanted to grow up too fast, you said. I had a lot to learn about life and I should just enjoy being a kid."

"What does that have to do with me?" She asked.

"I wasn't ready to take on the world and you aren't ready to go out dancing. You don't need brand new shoes, nail polish, and hair coloring. You need to let go of the man who left you and learn to love yourself. It's the first lesson you'll ever learn when it comes to dancing."

"If I didn't love myself, I'd sit on the sidelines and avoid the dance."

"No, mom. If you loved yourself, you'd stop trying to compete with the young, pretty thing dad left you for. Stop shopping for designer clothes and pay your bills. Clean house. The best dance festival you're ever going to find is in your own heart."

I stopped playing with the keys in my pocket and really listened to my mom. She was a human being with a hurting soul. I lent her some money and, together, we went to talk to "the voice." Kathleen Mason was paid the rent fees and she was happy.

So there I was on the edge of a cliff hanger and I didn't have a nervous breakdown after all. Neither did my mom. She ate her french toast, I drank coffee, and we talked about life. We agreed that our lives didn't have to be like a soap opera.

I was in a happy relationship, soon to be married. My mother was divorced and learning how to dance. Together, we found a way to open our hearts to each other and do the tango. We didn't have to step outside of the house to dance.

All we had to do was love ourselves, first. The truth is, my mother wasn't neurotic at all. She was a woman who needed to know she was beautiful. She believes in herself today and I believe in her too.

"I love you, Melanie." She said.

"I love you too, mom. Don't ever forget how to dance."