My Mom is a Boss Mom

*I originally wrote this for the challenge of Boss Mom. Because life gets in the way all too often, I couldn’t submit it in time. However, I already had it written and felt it still needed to be published.*

My mom is a “Boss Mom” in every sense of her being.

I always referred to her as The Martha. Of course, there were many other women in the world named Martha however, my mom was, and always will be, The Martha.

My mom had a difficult time as an adult. Pregnant at 18 with my older brother in a terrible marriage. Then there was my father. Yeah, he will always be my dad, but he was some piece of work as well. But my mom loved him more than anything. They divorced when I was 11 and a single parent from then on.

Being the baby of the family, I ended up hanging out a lot with mom. Dad was in a band and was always out playing a gig at some smoking club in the local area. That left mom and I to do a ton of stuff together and I learned a great deal form watching her being a mom.

I will never forget one time when I was nose-high to a service counter, my mom and I were out running around, and the car needed to be repaired. It had a small hole in the radiator and mom made an appointment with the dealer to get it fixed.

The car was a 1977 Ford LTD. I always called it “Moby Dick” because it was huge and white. It was a monster of a car. Wide as the street lane was and darn near as long as our driveway.

She walked into the repair center with me in tow and left the keys with the mechanic who told us it would take about an hour. We walked out and continued our errands.

One thing I should add is that as a young girl growing up, mom was into the boys who worked and drove cars. She figured that if she wanted to be close to them, she needed to learn how to work on cars as well. That led her to eventually doing some drag racing at the local abandon airport with some of the guys. She never won but she was always there and had the respect of all the boys present. If that alone doesn’t make her a Boss Mom, its at least a good start.

Mom and I returned to the repair center and the rather rotund mechanic I was looking up at started giving mom a long list of other things that were wrong with the car.

“Well ah, your air flow vent was clogged. Your alternator doesn’t seem to be charging properly, and your head gasket needs replaced.”

Mom let him finish his list as she looked at him with “The Martha boredom eyes”. This was a look I normally got when trying to explain why I needed, not wanted, the toy in the cereal box or how I didn’t know how the glass got broken. All I knew was that at that moment in time, I was glad she was aiming it at the big heavy car guy and not at me. See, I knew that after she gave that look, I was always in big trouble. This poor grease-smudged man had no idea what was about to happen to him.

When he finished his list mom, still brandishing the look, replied in a monotone voice, “I’d like to speak to your manager.”.

The mechanic smiled and chuckled then tried to launch into further explanations, but mom cut him off, “I said I would like to speak to your manager.”. And the mechanic paused in silence for a moment to process what just happened.

It was a good thing he didn’t continue speaking cause this new tone she switched into when she repeated herself, was the tone I usually heard as my final chance before I got a whoopin’.

Yes, I was born in a time when that was something parents did to discipline their kids. You younger generations don’t have to put up with that because so many of my generation complained about and wrote books about how awful it was when our parents beat us. Yup! You… are… welcome.

The mechanic stepped away and returned moments later with another tall, burly, man with a beard equally decorated with grease stains and dirt smudges. He smiled and asked mom, “Yes ma’am, how can help you?”

Then my mom dropped the mic, “I brought my car in because it had a hole in the radiator. I left it for the required time told to me of when it would the repair would be completed. Only when I returned…”, she gestured to the now confused looking mechanic.

“… this gentleman is telling me this list of other issues need fixed on my car.” She paused for a moment and the bearded man tried to speak but couldn’t even get started as my mom continued.

“I know there is not a single one of these issues wrong with my car. I brought it in for a small hole in the radiator, and the only reason I didn’t fix it myself was because I didn’t want to break my nails.” She held up her hand to display her professionally manicured and painted nails to them, then continued.

“I am going to leave now. I will be back in one hours’ time to pick up my car. When I return, I will be shown my old radiator…” She paused, “…and I know how to identify my old radiator. And I will inspect the new replacement in the car. And I want a new radiator, not a refurbished one.”

The bearded man nodded as my mom listed off her demands with a sprinkle of “Yes ma’am” thrown in for good measure.

My mom looked over the list of issues the mechanic tried to pass by her then placed it back in front of the bearded man. “I do not give authorization for any of these items to be touched on my car. Only the radiator will be replaced.”

The bearded man nodded even deeper and gave a final, “Yes, ma’am, well have it ready for you.”

I remember holding my mom’s hand as we walked out looking back over my shoulder at the men talking with a feeling of panic that radiated between them. I distinctly remember the nervous and strange feeling you had as a kid when you watched grown up yell at another kid that wasn’t their kid.

As a child, I looked at this event as yet another bit of proof that you don’t mess with The Martha. It wasn’t until I got into my twenties that I realized this was a prime example of the many obstacles my mom had to face in the world. Not only as a single mom, but a single mom making her way in a man’s world.

Another moment we shared is probably one of the most meaningful moments of my life.

As a Transgender woman, I have lived close to half of my life closeted and did everything I could to hide the true me from the world. One of the main fears that haunted me was how my mom would take the news if I ever told her. My greatest fear was that she would disown me and never speak to me again. Sadly, I didn’t get to choose the time in which I came out to her. It was chosen for me by my ex-wife.

We were separating and before I left the house, she presented the phone to me and said, “Either you tell your mother, or I will.” and extended the phone to me.

I lost my breath and felt nauseous instantly. The overwhelming emotions I was already having about separating mixed with the fact that if I did come out to my mom, it would be the last act I do in this house. When she presented this terrifying ultimatum, I was hit by a blind determination that I may have failed as a spouse, but I’d be damned if I was going to let someone else, especially her, tell my mom instead of me. So, it was with a shaky hand that I reached for the phone.

My heart raced as I dialed the phone. I remember the phone shaking as it touched my ear. Mom answered and I sounded like I was in the middle of running a marathon when I said, “Hi mom. I have something I need to tell you.”

It took a while, but I eventually got it out. “I’m Transgender.” There was a pause then my mom spoke. “Okay.” She went on to reassure me that she loved me.

I finished my call, gave my ex the phone and walked out. When I got to my new apartment, my adrenaline tanked, and I was exhausted but relieved. 35 years of fear and anxiety rushed out of me.

Then after a watching a handful of afternoon chat shows with focuses on Transgender people, my mom was now an “expert” of what it is to be a Transgender person.

A year had passed and after the divorce, I had to move back to Virginia and lived with my mom for a bit to get back on my feet. It was during this time I learned how awesome and supportive my mom truly was.

It was a hot August afternoon and we were out running some errands. I returned to the car after one stop and exclaimed, “Whoo, it’s so hot out there I could sweat my balls off.”

To which mom replied, “Well, that would be a good thing, right?”

I have always considered it a blessing that no matter what, my mom knew who I truly was and continued to love and support me.

The Martha passed on Easter Sunday of 2021. At her funeral, I gave a eulogy that I think summed her up pretty well.

My mom suffered from dementia for over 9 years. Most of that time she moved from independent living, to assisted living, to memory care, and for the final year and a half, she lived with us. During this entire time, we were always asked the same question, “What was your mom like before all this?” I found myself always giving the same answer.

My mom was not your average Jane. She is only going to respond to you if interact with her in a certain way. And if she doesn’t want to do something, she will definitely let you know.

She was a tough lady. A single mom making it in a career dominated by men. She commanded respect, and she got it. Her nickname at work was Old Iron Pants and kept even the highest-ranking admirals she worked with inline. And she loved, of course it was in her own unique and special way, but she loved in abundance.

Growing up she instilled respect for other in me. I always add a “Sir” or “Ma’am” when I speak to anyone. When I got older, people would comment that it must come from the time I spent in the Army. I am always quick to respond saying The Martha got a hold of me way before Uncle Sam ever did.

I finished my eulogy by telling the story of the mechanic trying to take advantage of her because she is a woman.

So that is my mom, The Martha. Drag racer, single mother, feminist, protector, supporter, teacher, and to me, A Boss Mom.