Mother and Me

As a child and young adult, I didn’t realize what a daunting task mothering was. I thought about my own mother before she gave birth. She undoubtedly read child development and parentings books, and she baby-proofed her house. But no one could tell her, the expectant mother, what to anticipate. No one could tell her that the little girl she’d soon birth would come with a personality all her own and that it would often ran in direct opposition to her own.

I guess what got me thinking about Mother was a Mother’s Day keepsake the six-year old me prepared for her in school. My teacher had mimeographed pictures for us to color, and I’d selected the rose picture and colored the roses red because Mother’s favorite flower was red roses. When I ran across the keepsake in one of my scrapbooks, my mind was flooded with memories of Mother.

I remember the summer I picked plums with her from the tree beside our house and made plum jelly. I remember walking with her to the nearby corner store, buying a package of M&Ms, and washing it down with a diet Dr. Pepper. I remember her making me peanut butter sandwiches; combing the tangles out of my wispy, fine, curly hair; and making me wear the itchy, frilly dresses that she made. I remember the five-year old me sitting on her lap while she read books to me. The older me remembers her reading the dictionary to me every night. “Words are powerful,” she repeatedly said. “Learn their meanings, how to spell them, and how to use them properly. The teenage me listened (and felt a wee bit nagged) as she continually impressed upon me, “Choose your words carefully and kindly when conversing with others.”

From kindergarten on, she dropped me off at school. As she drove away, she rolled down the window and said, “Remember, you’re smart. You’ll do well in school.” Whenever I wrote a paper for any class, she always read it before I turned it in. Rather than offering criticism, she asked, “Is this your best effort?” Even now, her words echo in my mind whenever I’m critiquing or editing my own writing. More importantly, her methodology gave me confidence by teaching me to measure my own abilities and efforts from an internal standard and compass and inadvertently taught me to live from the inside out.

I thank Mother for her commanding presence, her stern guidance, and her shaping words. Her words made a difference. There have been those times in my both my academic and professional career as well as in my personal life when I felt stretched beyond my ability. But I would always hear her gentle voice telling a very young me that I was smart and could do whatever I needed or chose to do. I used her words to push myself beyond where I might have been tempted to stop.

The much older version of me now stares into the eyes of the sometimes reckless, demanding, know-it-all child I was; I think about how hard it must’ve been to be my mother, for my personality and hers ofttimes clashed. Frequently, I think about the words I said and wish I could take them back.

In this day and time, most people look back to their childhoods; and they are quick to point out what was done wrong on the parenting side of the relationship without considering the other side. But on this Mother’s Day I recognize that I was unbelievably blessed with the quintessential mother. Were Mother still alive, I’d profusely thank her for the sacrifices she made and for the ground state she gave me and the almost non-stop encouragement she administered—encouragement that has sustained me throughout my entire life.

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