Ode to my mom

In honor of Mother’s Day, I wanted to write about my mom. I’ll do a Part II and write about my crazy, chubby, loveable kiddos on Monday.

First, how my mom got to be a mom. 

My mom used to have platinum blonde hair. And wear miniskirts. And tan on the sorority roof. And then she went on a blind date with my dad. My dad got back from their blind date and wrote a note to his roommate he hung from the ceiling fan in the middle of their dorm room. It said, “I’m in love.” Okay, really did he have a chance with her platinum blonde hair and miniskirts? Probably not.

But that’s not what my dad says caught him right away. He says, “She had these big, brown eyes, and when I saw them, I knew I was done for.”

Soon after, my dad was drafted for Vietnam. My mom graduated and went on to teach in a town so small it had no radio reception. She waited for my dad while my dad celebrated his 21^st birthday away from family, friends, and all things familiar. He wrote her name on his helmet. She went on to get her Masters in education. She must have stopped tanning because she got straight As. My dad returned, continued school until he earned his degree and then they got married. They had my sister and me, six years apart before my mom celebrated her 32^nd birthday.

My sister and I talk often about how we think we might not be related to my mom. It’s not because she looks different – well, she looks a bit different than me. (My sister looks like my mom. Once, she got her haircut like my mom’s was at her age, and when you put their pictures next to each other, they looked like clones. I looked at those photos and realized when my sister would run around telling me I was adopted when I was younger, she may not have been lying).

It’s because she’s so feminine. She’s proper. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom belch. Or really do much of anything unladylike. Sometimes, I’ve caught her tripping over something, but she even makes that look graceful. Almost like she dabs her mouth with a napkin after tripping and says, “Excuse me,” and it’s over. I love that about her. That I can always hold her up as this person that I hope to be one day when I grow up.

More than her grace, I admire her kindness. I’ve never met anyone as kind as my mom. She’s a principal, and her love of the children she works with is evident in everything she does. Her love for her teachers. For her co-workers. Her admiration. Her drive. She earned her doctorate in educational leadership (I think this is it, mom, I’m sorry if I butchered this) and I watched her present her doctorate in front of the panel and I’ve never been so proud. 

My mom is also a bit of a worrier. Well, a lot of a worrier. And I used to laugh, but now I realize when you become a mother, the second your child is born, the part of your brain that controls your worries grows by like 150%. It’s a fact. I think.

So, even though I’m 28 and have now taken a ride on an escalator approximately 2,347 times, as we near the edge my mom still says, “Turn around. Pay attention, Sweetie. Honey! A child once got his shoelaces stuck.” I’m pretty sure that child also lived to tell his friends about the time he got his shoelaces stuck, but you would never know it the way my mom tells the story.

She has also saved my life. One morning, when the boys were 2 months old and I had slept for a total of about 30 hours in 15 days, and both of them were wailing in their cribs not wanting to take a nap, I called her and with tears running down my cheeks said, “Mom. I don’t know what to do.”

And she came over. She was half ready to go to the office but she didn’t even put on jeans. She had on a nice blouse and pajama pants and to me, it looked like a superhero costume.

She was my mom.

She was here for me.

She always has been.

 When I was little, I wanted to find a way to tell my mom I loved her, so I would say “I love you very much.” But then I felt like I had to beat yesterday’s message, because that day, I loved her even more, so I would say, “I love you very, very much.” But then, I realized I couldn’t capture all of my verys or my poor mother would have to sit and listen to me say the word “very” for 8 hours. So I started telling her, “Mom. I love you all the verys in the world. And more.” And that was it. That was our bedtime routine. She would tickle my arm, sing me a lullaby, and I would tell her I loved her all the verys in the world and more.

That’s still true today, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.