My mom was a bit of a mystic. Not in the traditional sense, but her superstitions were certainly larger than life. Throughout my childhood, I watched her perform quirky rituals like tossing salt over her shoulder and muttering strange phrases. These weren’t your typical fears of black cats or ladders; she warned about dire consequences, like giving birth to a child with horns or ruining a wedding day because of a rogue spice in the pasta sauce.
When my high school boyfriend surprised me with pearl earrings for Christmas, she simply remarked, “Pearls mean tears.” That was it. Sure, he turned out to be a jerk, and maybe her instincts about him were spot on, but her comment stuck with me. I never really liked pearls, and for a girl from Long Island, resisting that accessory trend in the ’80s was quite the challenge.
There were plenty of other odd rules that came with no explanation. For instance, I’ve never put my shoes on the table or opened gifts with scissors. And when it came to pregnancy, I ignored her warning about wearing black until I found myself at New York’s San Gennaro festival during my last month of carrying my first child. It was a typical summer street fair, and I was wearing this fabulous solid black A-frame dress that I thought made me look like Audrey Hepburn. As I walked by a food stand, an elderly woman began waving her hands, shaking her head, and speaking in Italian while making the sign of the cross. She shooed me away, and I decided then and there to stick to my hot pink dress for the rest of my pregnancy. Spoiler alert: my baby did not arrive with horns.
My mother’s warnings didn’t stop there. She insisted I shouldn’t dress my baby in black either, so my children have never donned those sleek outfits like the Kardashian kids. It just wasn’t worth the risk.
Her advice often felt like folklore passed down from her own mother. I distinctly remember my grandmother telling me never to sleep on my left side because it would crush my heart. Imagine the sheer panic I felt as a child if I ever woke up in that position!
For most of my life, I accepted these superstitions without question, partly out of respect for tradition and partly because I didn’t have the courage (or the internet) to argue. However, I eventually found my voice as an adult. My mom would often say that odd-numbered years were bad luck. But when I pointed out that I had married in an odd year and all four of my children were born in odd years, she paused, thought it over, smiled, and conceded.
What if she were here today to witness the chaos of 2020? I can only imagine the smug satisfaction I would have felt.
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In summary, my mom’s quirky beliefs and superstitions were often dismissed, but reflecting on them in light of recent events makes me wonder if there’s some truth behind them. As I navigate motherhood and family life, I still find myself considering her advice, even if I occasionally challenge it.