Mother's Day

My mom and I have a joke that I inherited all of the negative qualities from both of my parents.  My mom’s teeth, my dad’s feet, and so on, and so forth.  Sometimes, I imagine, it can feel that way to most of us.  As we grow, we begin to see reflections of the people who raised us when we look in the mirror, and for some of us that can be scary.  As children of parents, we have front-row seats to some high highs and some low lows.  Though I cannot speak from experience, what I know of parenting is that it is hard.  I was recently talking with a friend, and we came to the conclusion that it’s probably impossible to bring a childhood all the way to adulthood without leaving it with some amount of trauma (not that we don't try).  It can be frightening to see ourselves grow toward some of the ends that resulted in who we are.  It’s a cycle that makes more sense than any of us care to admit, and the realization of which can leave us winded.

But what I think we sometimes forget is that, often, our parents give us wonderful things as well.  They feed us and clothe us, sure, but when we are lucky, they also plant the seeds of some rather underrated wisdom in our minds the moment we’re born.  They look at us with love that we learn, and that is something to be so grateful for.  So that is what I am dedicating this blog post to; I’m writing a thank you note to my mother, on this Mother’s Day, for all that she has given me, all that makes me the person I am proud to be.

1. Dedication

These things matter.  Which things?  All of them.  This is a conversation I have with myself regularly.  When I’m faced with a task that seems tedious, or when I consider for the umpteenth time quitting my job, dropping out of school, and moving to a mountain, this is what I tell myself.  The dialogue is mine entirely; my mother doesn’t speak so cryptically, but the sentiment is something she taught me when I was very young.  

When I was in the fourth grade, we were given the opportunity to join the school band.  I knew that my mom had played the clarinet, so I wanted to play the clarinet. (Remember when we wanted to grow into our parents?)  I did not end up liking the school band, and I felt no real connection to the clarinet, but I was not given permission to quit.  When I was ten years old, my mother taught me that it is important to see things through; you’ve given your word, and that’s a powerful thing.  This is not to say that sometimes letting go of something is not the right thing to do.  That is something that I have learned as well, but it is also a separate issue.

I remember being in the fifth grade, and my class had a “show” of some sort, which was to be themed around the upcoming Mother’s Day.  My mom couldn’t make it that day, because she had to work.  I remember understanding that her reasoning for not coming was valid and that it made sense, but I also remember being so sad that I could not present her with her box full of love (an art project we had completed the week before).  I think that that happened a lot when I was young, and I would be lying if I were to say that I don’t sometimes remember the times when my mom couldn’t make it before the times that she could.  However, for someone who was earning all of the money that kept me alive, someone who was trying to make two small people grow into good larger people nearly on her own, she did so amazingly well.  When I was in the school musicals, my mom made it to almost every performance.  That is no small feat for someone working retail, who usually didn’t get to take any weekend days off, let alone all of them.  My mom chaperoned field trips, she read to me before going to bed, and she made sure that when she couldn’t make it to the Mother’s Day show, that there was a whole group of people there to cheer me on anyway.  It must have been nearly impossible to be as present as she was, and my mom did that for me.

Most of the things that I consider quitting are things that are important to me, and most things that are important to me are not easy.  Earning a four year degree is hard (even for an English Education major, despite what some may think).  Caring for others as a job requirement is hard.  Living and loving in an unfair and unflinching world is hard.  But these things matter.  All of them.  And that is why I am so grateful to have a mother who made me play clarinet though I had no talent, and whose face was almost always in the crowd.  I had both the instruction and the example of dedication that has helped me focus and thrive, even when it’s hard.

2. Perseverance

“This too shall pass.”  I am likely exaggerating when I write this, but I think that I called my mother crying every night of my first year of college.  I was having a not very good time, and I truly felt as though that feeling would never go away.  From the perspective that I had then, I thought that the goodness of my life was over; I thought that all of the love and light I was meant to have had already passed.  And almost every night of my first year of college, my mother said to me, as I sobbed into my phone, “this too shall pass.”  She said it as though it were true, steadily and earnestly.  I found very little meaning to what I was going through at the time, but “this too shall pass” gave me some small bit of hope that I truly was going through it, that I was not stuck in it.  
Lo and behold, she was right.  I still call my mom more than I think most people my age do, but I rarely do so in tears.  Now, it’s me who tends to answer phone calls or door knocks or text messages saying things like “this too shall pass.”  I don’t say it because I think that it’s magic.  I know that there was a lot of other stuff at play in my ability to move past the things that were making me cry, but I know now that those words are true.  

I have reminders all over my room that life goes on in the face of adversity.  “This too shall pass” hangs above my coffee maker, so that when I wake up after far too little sleep, trying to convince my body that it’s time to go to class, I can remember that the tiredness is only right now.  “Joy comes in the morning” stays by my bed, so that I can keep in mind that things look far scarier in shadows, and it’s much easier to see clearly in the light of a new day.  “Tomorrow will be kinder” plays in my ears almost daily, even if it’s a good day, because it is important to give yourself reminders of how good life can become if you work really hard, and then let it.  

I remember going to the beach when I was little.  Not a specific trip, but they were all sort of the same, anyway.  I’ve always liked playing in the ocean, even though I also find it a scary, vast, unknowable place.  This means that I was often pushed under waves much larger than me, tossed and tumbled and breathless.  I would scrape my arms and legs against the sand at the bottom of the wave, wondering if I would ever stand on solid ground again.  Then, suddenly, I would be above the surface of the water.  I would breathe in, and I would look around me, and I would be thankful for having made it through.  This is what I think of when I think that “this too shall pass.”  I also think of running to my mom, and her holding me, encouraging me to move past the pain or fear of wiping out under a wave, and swim again.  

3. Faith

I’ve gone to church every week for approximately my whole life, but that’s not really the kind of faith that I’m talking about (though my mother did inspire that to a great degree as well).  The faith that I am talking about is earthly, impermanent, and therefore uniquely precious.  My mother has never given up on me.  I have been an absolute wretch at times.  I have been through so many highs and so many lows, and they have been mirrored by horrible ups and downs in attitude.  This has meant a lot of difficulty, I imagine, in raising me.  I don’t think that it’s too remarkably different from many other teenagers, but knowing who I was during those times, I have nothing but awe for my mother.  My mom would listen to me complain or argue and be generally frustrating, and after all of that, she would comfort me when I would reach the eventual breaking point.  She would reassure me that I was not a bad person, and she would offer me advice on how to proceed from where I was.

I have always been a very feeling person.  I cry a lot, and I laugh a lot.  I put a lot of energy into other people, and it can be difficult, because while I can know that I am a good person, a good friend, I still sometimes doubt myself.  I wonder if I am putting in enough energy.  I think that I am doing something wrong, that I earn the bad things that happen.  My mother never lets me continue down these paths of thought.  She reassures me, reminds me that I am good.

I have learned this reassuring behavior.  When others come to me, questioning themselves, or doubting their ability to continue, I may not always know the perfect thing to say, but I know that I have faith in them.  I believe in their ability to carry on, and their potential.  But I would never have been able to have that if I did not have my mom, always backing me up, always encouraging me, and always helping me find my way when I am lost.  
So many of my friends call me “mom,” and I take a lot of pride in that.  My mom has been the most important part of my life for basically all of my life.  My mom has been a rock as well as a soft place to land, never letting me feel poorly about myself.  To be compared to the title of “mom” is the greatest honor I can imagine.  To be seen as someone who can offer that much support and love is such an incredible compliment, and I am so grateful to have a mother to allow it to be that way.  

This list could go on.  I could write for days and days about all of the things that I feel so blessed to have been given by my mother.  A penchant for melancholy music, as well as an appreciation for upbeat, poppy tunes; a love for dogs, and a desire to adopt five at once; the hobby of attending Sunday open houses when I’m not even in the market for a new house, and so much more.  So, thank you, Mama, for all of this and everything else.  Happy Mother’s Day.