There we are, she and I.
(Don't be alarmed, Mom; this is the only topless photo I'll ever post on the internet.)
There's a lot I could say about my mother ... I could write a Hallmark card about her. She's that kind of mother. She's given me wisdom and protection and ceaseless love, and she never seems to stop teaching me. There's a lot I could say.
I could write about how full she is of wisdom and common sense, and about how all her little bits of guidance are now a part of me, without me ever realizing it was happening, so that now, I find myself telling my roommate to eat an apple when she's hungry, because it's full of fiber, and fiber makes you feel less hungry. Or using a public restroom when I get the option because "you never know when the next one will come along." Or about how I believe in spending money on shoes because they care for your feet, and about how I know to take care of my teeth because I only "get one set." It's in the way I pick watermelons, by knocking on them, until I find the one with the most sugar marks and the hollowest sound. There are less obvious ways her wisdom is now mine as well. It's in the way I catch myself viewing the world through her eyes, examining a situation with her delicate balance of honesty, praticality, and tenderness. It's in the bravery with which I enter relationships.
I could write about how well she knows me. About how she is all-too-familiar with my explosive rage any time I get hit in the head. About the time she threw a stuffed animal to me, but I didn't know it, and it hit me in the head ... about how I chucked it reactively back at her, and about how she tried to stifle her uncontrollable laughter at my rage. I could write about what it means to have one with whom I can be the messiest of messes, and still be loved in my entirety. I could write about how sometimes I growl at her on my bad days, and she doesn't take it personally, because she knows.
I could talk about how she looked to me, as a child. About how TALL she was. So tall, in fact, that when - at about the age of 12 - I realized she was a petite 5'2," I could hardly believe it. And about how I used to listen to her sing and wanted to record her voice singing The Little White Cloud That Cried because her voice is low and round and gentle, a chime, the voice of my lullabies. About how I'd watch her put on lipstick and rouge and wish to be so beautiful some day. My mother is a looker.
I could write about all the little acts of love that shaped my childhood, about the notes she wrote on the napkins in my lunches in elementary school, about the candy bar - or "chompo bar" as we called it - she taped to a birthday present at every birthday, or about the Minnie Mouse pin she pinned into the pocket of my dress on the first day of Kindergarten, so that - when I missed her - I could feel it, and know that she was with me. I could write about all the little acts of love I was never aware of, about the research she did to ensure I had the best teachers, about the bowls of half-eaten food she cleaned, about the Christmas Eves she stayed up late, with blurry eyes, filling our stockings with Rolo's and Snicker's. There are countless acts of love to be sure. There's so much I could write.
But, as I get older, I find myself appreciating new things about her, qualities that were always there, qualities which I never knew to appreciate before I, too, became a woman. Yes, my mother is beautiful, and kind and wise, and loves me sacrificially in small ways and big ones too. But alongside my gratitude for all of those qualities is a profound realization that my mother is brave, and she is perseverant. What I appreciate about her now is much more nuanced. Now, having to face my own battles in life - battles in which the enemy is often an elusive false belief, or a fleeting moment of temptation to despair - I am awestruck to the point of tears at my mother's perseverance and strength. She took care of her own mother, who was blind. She worked to put my father through his doctoral program and to put herself through an undergraduate degree. She raised four daughters, and she fought with them and cried over them and continues to love them. To love us. Even when that love is painful and requires a letting go. Or a scooping up. Or a holding. She is the most adaptable of beings, even when that adaptation is uncomfortable. She just keeps changing. Evolving. And she stays in the game.
Because now I know that staying in the game is not so easy. It takes work and courage. My mother - though the same - is so different than the mother I knew at 5, or 10, or 25. And I am grateful for that. Because in the staying-open, in the kind of love that makes you vulnerable - she teaches me how to stay alive. Really alive. I cannot think of a more beautiful quality than that.
And finally, to my sisters, who I've had the pleasure of watching become incredible mothers themselves, you have all been a second mother to me at one time or another. And I honor you as well, pieces of my heart. And I love you fiercely and always. Here we all are, my sisters, my mom, her mom. I am the little itty-bitty in tights, sitting on my grandmother's lap, more interested in the flower she's holding than in posing for a photo.
With that, I lift a glass to my mama, to her bravery, to her boldness to keep evolving, to all the ways she teaches me how to persevere, to stay in the game. I love you Mom. And even though I now stand 5 inches taller than you, and I wear lipstick and rouge too, you are more beautiful to me than ever before.
Happy Mother's Day, Mama.
No matter where I go in the world, your pin is in my heart to stay....
and you are my home.
