Last year on Mother's Day, I wrote a
blog post letter to my mom. In it I wrote about little things I remembered from my childhood. While I wrote it I cried, feeling such big feelings for my mom. I wanted her to know that I valued her and my memories of her. It was a sentimental and awkward attempt at a tribute.
Well, I reread that post today, a year later. And it seems incomplete. It's still just as true that I appreciate the pot roasts and the permission to make blanket forts, but there is a deeper layer of thanks that I missed. Or maybe a couple. And although I'm sure this will be incomplete, too, I want to try to do better. So here it is: more of what I learned from my mom.
My mom was patient with me, but when it came to me experimenting with being snarky, mean, or judgmental of my peers- well, she had no patience with that. I remember writing a letter to a pen pal at a young age, and mentioning in it something about an annoying geeky girl in my class. Well, my mom saw it and gave me a piece of her mind. I would be rewriting that letter, thankyouverymuch.
My mom takes very seriously the axiom, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." And although she, along with all the female members of my extended family, loves a good bit of gossip- coffee and coffeecake optional- any stories of a person's misfortune were told in somber, sorry tones. There was grace and suspended judgment even while heads were shaking back and forth, for all but the most heinous crimes. Her attitude of grace and mercy is an example to me.
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So what I'm saying is that Mom would get me to stop crying, and
Dad would walk me through how to best dig the grave. Hypothetically. |
One result of that attitude, is that my mom is the safest person I know. If I killed someone, and needed advice on hiding the body, I would ask my dad. But first, I would call my mom, and tell her everything, and get her sympathy. Once I knew she still loved me and understood, then I would tell her to put dad on the phone.
When I need a listening ear, she's the person I think of first. She is
for me, in the best way possible. And when we close our phone conversations, she says, "I love you," four or five times. It's the best.
My mom is a "get it done" person. Yardwork. Housework. Homework. She tackled tasks and kicked their butts. She would touch things in the sink with her bare hands that I wouldn't look at with both eyes. Digging out dandelions. Squashing spiders. Holding garage sales. Done, done, done. She is still that way. Having her physical presence near me is all I need to feel a burst of super-charged energy, and suddenly cleaning out the back of the fridge seems like a winnable battle.
I grew up seeing her get things done.
Along with most kids who grew up having a stay-at-home-parent, I assumed a lot about them. That it was easy, that it was always what she wanted to do, that being with my exalted presence all hours of the day was enough reward for anyone. Ahem. Now I am in the trenches of that same gig- home with the littles, trying to mind the children, the house, the laundry, the shopping. And I know that my mom must have sacrificed more that I knew- or know- for me and my brother. She sacrificed the big- career perks of lunch with the girls, money, measurable and attainable goals. She sacrificed the little- being able to have a couple moments of privacy to go pee, not having kids slurping on your (glass) bottle of Pepsi without asking, reading
Ten Apples Up On Top ad naseum when you had a new Stephen King tempting you from the bookshelf.
But the beautiful thing- the amazing miracle of motherhood- is that as a kid I was oblivious to her sacrifice. She was no martyr, no complainer, no bitter ranter. Even as I got older, old enough for her to tell me that we couldn't afford whatever random Esprit or Benneton swag I was begging her for, she never breathed a word about her own sacrifices.
My mom loves others well. All my growing-up years, she always made birthdays and holidays seem like days covered in fairy glitter. She sends cards, gifts, personal notes. I remember the lengths she went to, trying to get my grandma- her mother-in-law- the perfect gifts. She prays for me, without fail. She prays for my friends. I've seen the patient brushstrokes that make the masterpiece of a wife's unconditional, unwavering love, by observing my parent's marriage.
I could go on, and perhaps next year- or next week- I will. But the true letter to my mom about the fruits of her labor- pun intended- are my brother and I. Our lives are not a nice and neat report card of her success and failure as a parent. But, to really see how far the reach of her love extends, look at us. Many of my stumbling efforts at being kind, patient, and giving, are echos back to what I grew up knowing. So thank you, Mom. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
