Ma was adamant about getting to the stores first thing, when parking lots were empty and store aisles not clogged with carts. I grab the baby and fall out of the door on Thursday mornings, with or without makeup, desperate to arrive at the supermarket by nine, so I can run in and out, then be able to park under a shady tree at Costco by nine forty-five. She had been so determined to get a shady tree, and they do go fast. And no, I don’t park next to the shopping carts; someone won’t pack one away properly, and it’ll bang up the car. I know, Ma.

Ma loved skincare and makeup, and at some point, I gravely took on the family tradition. But there were times when I became too invested in a certain product. “Ma!” I would wail, “They’re discontinuing my favorite foundation/eyeshadow/lipstick!”

Much to my deflation, Ma would shrug. “They’ll come out with something new,” she’d say. “They always do.”

I didn’t believe her, and I would frantically scour eBay, scooping up all those beloved products… only to have them moldering untouched a decade plus later in the darkest recesses of my bathroom cabinet. Ma was right.

Day in, day out, her invocations rattle through my head: I didn’t invent the rooster. Two heads are better than one. Don’t make me be a policeman. You’re gonna break it! Just try it on. Mach nisht kiddush (when pouring a drink and the glass is getting too full). Shoin nisht the vaaser (when filling the washing cup). Pack away five things, a pair of shoes counts as one. How could you hurt your own flesh and blood? Two hands, two feet, that’s all they gave me. Life isn’t perfect; it’s just pretty good. I’m going to run away from home. AAAAAAAH! (Her shriek had a specific intonation. I’ve kept the havarah.)

These sayings fall out of my mouth without thought; they neatly fit nearly every scenario.

After years standing by her elbow as she cooked and baked, I automatically hear her as I cook and bake, all her methods and admonitions echoing in my ear. My hands move to mimic her motions, reaching for the same tools. Because she was right.

And she knew it. Ma would be so exasperated when her offspring politely disregarded her advice, frustrated that they would make mistakes when she had already learned how to avoid them. Human nature, I suppose, but as I watch others stumble, I, too, fight to hold my tongue.

Ma wasn’t perfect, of course. She didn’t always get it right. Because, contrary to my youthful impression of her as the all-knowing, fear-invoking, European MOTHER, she was human. But her mind was always open to adopting something new to be included with the tried-and-true. Biggest proof? She was willing to tweak the sacred paprikash recipe. So I try to keep my mind open, too.

Recently, I was on the phone with the school psychologist, asking for strategies to deal with my four-year-old’s sudden, inexplicable terror of the kitchen. I had, until this point, thought I should validate my son’s fear, as the new parenting gurus advise, by saying, “You’re scared of the kitchen?”

The therapist, however, had a different take. “Tell him instead, ‘You’re okay.’ As a parent, your words have power. If you say he’s scared of the kitchen, his fears will be confirmed.”

To her confusion, I burst out laughing. There, again, was one of Ma’s maxims: Don’t give things mamashus.

You were right, Ma. You were right.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 875)