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Lessons in Life from My Boss Mom

It's about sliding down hills, picking berries, and being fully present

By Mike BarzacchiniPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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Millie Barzacchini, My Boss Mom

Mildred Evans Barzacchini, my mom, is a Boss Mom.

Mom died in November 2019 after living 101 rich, full years. But I still think and speak of her in the present tense. That’s the thing about Boss Moms, they will always be with us. And Millie is no exception.

I could cite all kinds of evidence as to why my Mom is a Boss Mom. She raised four children of her own, including me, her youngest who was born when she was forty-two years old. And she helped to raise many others in direct and indirect ways, including one of her grandchildren. All of this, while working one or more jobs, usually full-time. When I was a young child, for example, she managed a restaurant in a hotel. Lots of six- and seven-day weeks and late nights. Yet, I always felt like Mom was with me because somehow she always was. That ability to be fully present taught me one Boss Mom lesson early on, it’s not how much time you spend with someone, it’s the quality of time you spend with them.

My Boss Mom taught me how to throw a baseball and spent hours playing catch when I was convinced at age nine I’d pitch for the Cincinnati Reds. My Boss Mom took me on raspberry picking expeditions deep into the forest behind our home. We strapped buckets on our belts and returned scratched and bug-bit with heaps of sweet berries that she would magically transform into cobblers and jams.

My Boss Mom taught me to be accountable. When I returned from a late night out at an age when I shouldn’t have been drinking, I tried to hide an empty wine bottle deep in our trash can. I woke bleary-eyed the next morning to find the bottle on the kitchen counter. I panicked, sure that I’d left the bottle there in my inebriated state the night before. Thankfully, I didn’t hear anyone else stirring in the house. So, I buried the bottle deeper in the trash. Showered, dressed, and returned to the kitchen, only to find the bottle again on the counter. That time, the message got through even my thick skull. I was to take the bottle to my mom and explain myself. I did.

One of my favorite Boss Mom stories took place when I was nine years old. We moved across Ohio to the Indiana border so my dad could start a new job. To me, we may as well have been moving to the end of the world. I was leaving my first group of real friends and a home I loved in what to me was a magical neighborhood. From that home, we landed in a small apartment surrounded by strangers. I became introverted and I’m sure sullen. Of course, Mom noticed.

I’m sure she gave me some time to find my way, but it was clear I needed a boost. Mom had already gotten to know the parents up and down our street. Most had kids my age, not that I’d bothered to try to meet any of them. So, Mom organized and led an adventure, a day hike with a half-dozen kids into the city park that bordered our backyard.

We hiked trails, climbed trees, and waded streams. We even climbed one of the highest hills in the park and took turns sliding down on our backsides, led by Mom. In fact, I think it was her idea.

I entered the woods that day lonely and isolated and came out with a whole new pack of friends, thanks to my Boss Mom.

When my dad, Albert Barzacchini, died in 2012, we worried about Mom. They had been married for 76 years and were partners and friends in every way. And it did change Mom. She withdrew somewhat and became quieter. But she never completely lost her sense of humor, her zest for life, and her love for her family. She lived more than seven years after Dad passed and she continued to love actively, smile contagiously, and continue to live as well as she could as a Boss Mom.

I’ve come to understand that all of these small examples and experiences with Mom that I will treasure to my last days add up to four big lessons: Love life and the people in your life fully and unconditionally. Seek to serve. Practice kindness. And be strong for yourself so that you may be strong for others.

Thank you, Mom, for being such a boss. I love you.

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About the Creator

Mike Barzacchini

Writing my third act.

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