Mothers don't do mistakes, we make happy little accidents.

I grew up down the street from my grandmother's house and, once she moved to the other side of town, I looked forward to my Saturday afternoon visits with Nagy Mama - especially, when they turned into sleepovers - even into my twenties, there were weekends where I had...ahem...nothing particularly exciting planned (read: AH-LEW-SAH!) we would catch up on the latest "how-to" shows on New Jersey Public Television.

Twenty-years-ago, it WAS The Food Channel, HGTV, and Dr. Phil all wrapped up into one hour, after another, of tvtherapy.

Nagy Mama would bum a Newport Light (I believe I was the only one in the family who knew that she snuck a ciggy, every now and again) and we would sit together on her plastic covered couch (ouch!) exhaling little clouds of grey smoke like she-dragons and trash the men who'd done us wrong!

You see, except for my mother's biological father (who died in WWII when my mother was 3) most of the father figures in my grandmother's life weren't very...um...well...the men were HORRIBLE, quite frankly.

Still.

I loved her stories about growing up in "the old country" and she had this wonderful way of making you feel as if you were actually there, watching her, while she climbed the chestnut trees that lined the village and filled her skirts with what would prove to be perfect ammo for her home made slingshot.

Then, with a wave of her hand, she would hush me, lean closer toward the television console and immerse herself in the world of Bob Ross.

Yes, Bob Ross and his Joy of Painting "happy little trees" and quiet almost Zen-like approach to teaching his viewers how to create their own "happy little worlds."

[blank stare]

Okay, either you loved the guy, or threw a couple of very creative expletives at the television, prior to quickly changing the channel before your brain atrophied from placidity, like the rest of the family.

Just listen, to Bob Ross do his thing.

See.

I know -- that's NOT really Bob Ross -- still, man I couldn't help but have a weirded-out sort of happy little "crush" on Bob Ross and imagined that it would probably take a lot to rock this man's boat...painted on a "happy little lake" in the middle of a "happy little forest" somewhere, no doubt!

"Your grandfather was a lot like him."

[eyes go wide]

"Which one?"

[points finger in my face and grabs another ciggy]

"Don't be stupid...my Ferenc...he was a loving and very soft-spoken, quiet man...not like the idiot I'm married to, now!"

[lighting up]

"Um...okay...so, why did you marry him, then?"

[with the finger-pointing, again]

"Sounds easy for you...yes?...but, for a woman living in the "old country"...with four children...let's just say that my prospects were, limited."

[inhaling deeply]

"So...**cough**...why don't you just divorce him?"

[more finger-pointing]

"Where would I go...what would I do...I've lived this long with him...what good would it do?"

Frustrated -- and already knowing that some Hungarians can be very, very stubborn -- I turned and watched Bob Ross paint another "happy little mountain"....with a frickin' spatula?!?

"Well, perhaps I'll meet someone like Nagy Papa...you know...like that guy right there."

We both watched as Bob Ross turned and smiled at his viewers, looking very smart with his white-man's-afro, and started to casually feed a squirrel that had suddenly popped out of his shirt pocket.

[fingers flying all over the place]

"You, my dear, are going to be just fine...you'll meet someone...and, you will make mistakes...but, listen to your grandmother...don't make the same mistakes, I did!"

She did eventually divorce her husband, moved in with my parents and was able to spend at least the last five years of her life, happy.

Life goes on.

Today, I was cleaning house (literally and metaphorically speaking) and don't believe it was an accident that I found an old Bob Ross "Joy of Painting" book, buried deep in the boxes that have piled up in our garage over the years, along with a tons of other stuff I just can't seem to get rid of.

Then, it hit me.

I finally realized that -- though, I have and will continue to make plenty of mistakes --sometimes it can be very difficult to know when to...you know...just grab a clean canvas and start over.

I miss you, Mama -- especially with Mothers Day just around the corner -- I've learned so much from you and hope that my children will grow up, like you (and me) to know that:

"When life hands you a couple of lemons - don't sweat it - just grow a fro, smack the hell out of a couple of paint brushes and make a pretty picture."

Or, something like that.

Original New Jersey Moms Blog post, Liz is a SAHM (an oxymoron, really) and also writes (in UPPERCASE) at thisfullhouse.com