Since usually on Mother’s day I’m bitching, moaning and crying, I thought this year I’d break from the pattern and talk about my own mom. I am grateful for each and every thing she gave me, taught me, did for me.
She taught me to be myself, even when that meant people laughed at me.
She raised me with the belief that I was beautiful, both inside and out. Even when I didn’t fit society’s ideal, or felt inferior, she’d remind me. She’d point out many people who were also beautiful, so I wouldn’t rely so much on some advertising to show me.
She gave me a love and appreciation of musicals, Italian food, old movies, front porches, car rides.
She showed me that marriage was hard work, but that if you both worked at it, it could be done well. I know she feels I’ve failed in this regard, but part of the reason I ended my marriage was because I knew I deserved a relationship with a partner who treated me like an equal.
She instilled a sense of care, made sure I knew that those I loved, and those who loved me were important and deserved my attention and affection. My mother loves every friend she has like family, and does what she can to make the lives of those around her easier.
She wants me to be happy, much like any mother would.
She smiled at my projects, applauded my performances, tasted my experiments. She laughed at my jokes, smirked at my clumsiness, cried at my disappointments.
She is not perfect. I have especially learned over the last few years that she is flawed. I don’t love her any less, but I see her as a woman, as a wife, a friend, and not just as my mother, but as a mother.