A few years ago I heard Penn Jillette, the vocal half of the magic group Penn & Teller relay a funny story about his mother.  The duo had just completed their opening night performance in NYC and as the tradition goes, had stayed up all night to await their review in The New York Times.  The review was hugely positive, and their manager turned to his mother and said, “doesn’t that make you proud.” His mother replied, “I don’t need the New York Times to be proud of my son, I was proud of him the instant he was born.”

As Penn explains – there are two types of mama’s boys in this world.  There is the traditional interpretation – a wimpy, winey, can’t take care of himself type that relies on his mother for everything.  There is however another type – the type whose mother “had such complete and unconditional love for her son, that he had the feeling he was 12-feet tall and bullet-proof.”  (listen to Penn’s story)

I was unbelievably lucky enough to fall into that second category.  To suggest my mom had faith in me would be the grandest of understatements.  I can not recall a single occasion where she doubted, criticized or made light of my dreams.  That’s not to say she has always been excited about my plans.  When I decided to move out west, I’m sure she would have preferred I instead took a job teaching back in my hometown, moved down the street perhaps, married a nice local gal and settled down.  Her plans for me however never took precedence over mine – and even when she had questions of how I was going about my dreams, they were always in my defense.

When I moved to Portland, I was a naive 23-year old, with no job lined up and no money in my pocket.  I found work with a gentlemen who was one-half businessman, one-half charlatan. It was my introduction to the world of the “start-up” and I began working countless hours for very little pay, in the hopes that soon I would be a very wealthy man.  In fact, I’d even agreed to get the company logo tattooed on my arm once I made my first million.  Needless to say my skin remains un-adorned.  I would write to my mother and explain how busy I was, and how excited I was about all the potential I saw in this new business.  Her response, while still positive, questioned why I would work so hard for so little pay.  “Don’t you think your time is valuable?” she asked.  At the time I passed it off as a lack of understanding of how business worked – but as the hours continued to pile up, and the tattoo appointment continued to get pushed further and further into the unforeseeable future, those words became truer and truer.  Eventually I would quit that job, walk out of the shop and eventually start my own business and discover my true value.  These days any time a prospective client tries to argue about price, I stand firm on my belief that I’m worth every penny of the hefty hourly I charge for my time.  My time is of great value – mama said.

I have always been a creative person – writing short-stories, painting and sketching, playing guitar and mandolin.  That entirely stems from my childhood when such endeavors were not merely time-fillers but rather proof of how wonderfully gifted my sisters and I were.  The house I grew up in is not filled with Picasso prints, but rather the walls are adorned with the artwork my sisters and I created over the years.  It’s a museum of Spies children, ranging from gigantic kindergarten paintings in the sun-porch, to a full wall of elementary school works in the kitchen.  When I declared I wanted to paint a “mural” in high school, my Mom agreed it was a worthy project.  The far wall of my bedroom (now the computer room) still has this giant work I created. Most parents would have probably painted over that the second I went to college. The living room contains no less then three of my high-school paintings.  All are framed and given the respect typically reserved for artists.  That’s because we are artists.  I have never seen that title as something belonging to those of a higher creative ilk – I am an artist.  I am also a writer – and I can’t recall a single time where my mother said “I don’t have time to read that” or looked it over briefly and said, “yes, that’s nice.” Rather, I was encouraged to write regularly and she worked often as my editor.  My parents let me use the type-writer as a child (yes, I grew up in a time before computers as hard as that is to believe).  Again, by letting me use the typewriter I could feel like a professional.  I look back now and can only imagine how annoying it must  have been to have  me tap-tap-tapping away all afternoon on that device, not to mention probably damaging it now and again when I’d be compelled to see just how many keys I could press down at once (MOM… the typewriter jammed again…) The constant encouragement and interest in my writing compelled me to pursue such interests, graduating from college with a journalism degree.  This blog is a direct result of my interest not only in writing, but in sharing that work with others.  A few weeks ago I told my mom via email that I was working on a short-novel for my Goals Project.  Her response – “I am so glad that you are writing again! I always loved and enjoyed your work. I would really like to see what you have written so far… so if you ever feel like sharing, I am an interested audience!!!” I’m a great writer – mama said.

I’ve always had my own outlook on life, and while my mom’s views have not always run parallel to mine, she never attempted to force her views on me.  She likes to retell the story of how when I was very young, I asked why everyone referred to God as “He”.  “Well, God is a man,” my mother replied, as she had no doubt been taught in Catholic School growing up.  “No she isn’t,” I replied.  Not only do I love the fact that I was already questioning traditional religious dogma before I entered Kindergarten, I know up until I became an atheist in middle school that I truly saw God as a “mother earth” type figure. My mother never tried to push back on my views.  While her and I have had some wonderful philosophical conversations over the years about heaven and faith and God – and her beliefs are strong, they are equally independent.  She asked her priest once why people need to go to church.  She felt she could talk to God as easily as a priest could.  “Most people don’t feel that way,” he explained. “So the Church provides a means to communicate with the Almighty.  If you feel you can do this on your own, then follow that path.” My mother did, and never attended Church service again. She refused to have me and my sister’s baptized because she couldn’t fathom God would produce a child with sin. My mother has never had much concern over my atheism because I hold true to the same fundamental truth that she has preached my entire life – “Treat others as you wish they’d treat you.” This is my gospel and the guiding force behind my life.  Every donation I make, every favor I perform, every stranger I take a sincere interest in – every non-profit I build a website for – the goal is to be the individual I wish everyone was. I am my own spiritual leader – mama said.

It hasn’t always been easy to have a mother who thinks the world of you.  In those wonderful teenage years, where self-doubt reigned supreme over this awkward shell, it was occasionally impossible to imagine I was half the person she thought I was.  How could it be that girls would “totally like me” when they wouldn’t even talk to me?  How could I be a great athlete when I got cut from the JV soccer team?  It would be so much easier to assume the position of loser, or better, some type of invisible spirit that no one had to notice.  Those constant words of encouragement though forced me to press on – to find the things I was “the best” at, and most importantly, to never give up.  The only difference between a successful person and a failure is that successful people fail a lot more.  That core strength to get back up, dust yourself off and try again comes directly from my mother.  Next time I will win – mama said.

Two weeks ago I sent out my company eNewsletter, bragging about the recent work Jessica and I did.  We got some great compliments from several colleagues – art directors at ad agencies, presidents of companies, other great programmers, etc.  My favorite compliment was from a kindergarten teacher in upstate NY who still needs to read the instructions I wrote her a decade ago in order to print something.  “Beautiful work! Thank you for sending me some of your web sites… I really enjoyed looking at your work. I am going to look at it again at home, because my screen at home is much larger/wider than this one here at school. I love that you always do your best! I am so proud of you! Always have been!!!”

I am a great web developer who produces beautiful work.

Mama said.