My mom was hot stuff when I was little.
She was pretty and had straight teeth.
She wore pink hoop earrings and wore floppy hats.
She did cartwheels with the girls who lived in the white house across the street.
My mother is in nearly all of my earliest childhood memories. She encouraged me to paint, explore calligraphy, and use pipe cleaners to make frogs and ladybugs. She loved when I sang and danced and rode horses and did backflips off the diving board.
When I was sick, my mother brought the black-and-white television into my bedroom along with a little bell, which she told me to ring if I needed anything. On those miserable days, I watched My Three Sons and The Don Ho Show until my mother emerged with green medicine and Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup served on a swirly green and blue plastic tray.
One day, I didn’t want to be my mother’s twin anymore.
Pink and yellow were not my colors.
I remember shouting and slamming doors: the tears.
I saw my mother throw her hands up, exhausted, not knowing what else to do.
I felt powerful then. Driving her to pain and chaos was fun.
Now that I have a teenager in the house, I want to tell my mother, I’m sorry. Because I see how precious it is, that time when our children are young. And what a gift it is, to let a mother hold on to the little things for another day, another year.
Because it hurts when our children reject our cuddles.
Because it was cruel to play with her heart.
Even when I didn’t give her any credit, my mother has remained steadfast, guiding me with an invisible hand.
She still is.
I suspect she always will be.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Hey mom, you have two good hands. And from the looks of this photo, you knew how to style your own hair. Do you think you could have done something with mine? Seriously. Also, if you still have that hat, can I
haveborrow it? xoxoRASJ
Tell me something you remember about your mother.
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