For the longest time, I viewed my mom as a lovable but slightly chaotic figure – a woman who was perpetually late, a little disorganized, and always armed with a gentle nudge of encouragement. Her kitchen cabinets overflowed with half-finished craft projects and a stash of thank-you notes that were destined to remain unsent. Let’s just say, if there was an award for being fashionably late, she would have won it hands down. I can’t count the number of times I was left waiting for a ride, or was picked up long after the party had ended, and I was convinced that the phrase “a day late and a dollar short” could have been coined just for her.
One of my fondest memories is of her excitement when, this past St. Patrick’s Day, she managed to send my kids their Valentine’s cards right on time. Sure, they were a month late, but who’s counting? I recall a time when I was just two years old, and she started sewing me an Easter basket out of some adorable Strawberry Shortcake fabric. Well, let’s just say that basket never quite made it to Easter, or any Easter after that. I often found the fabric tucked away in her sewing kit, remnants of a promise that never came to fruition.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care; it’s that she was juggling a million things at once – none of which ever seemed to yield a gourmet meal. I was the kid whose lunchbox looked like a sad offering at a trade fair, while my friends swapped their delicious snacks. I was probably the only college student who couldn’t wait for fall break and a proper meal.
These days, my mom calls to share the local weather or the latest health tips from Dr. Oz. I prefer those calls over the ones where she offers parenting advice that’s a complete 180 from my own methods. For a while, I thought my mom was just forgetful or a bit slow on the uptake. I imagined other kids had mothers who arrived on time, whisked them off to fancy dinners, and spent evenings scrapbooking their adventures.
Then I became a mom myself.
I remember those sleepless nights, cradling my newborn and longing for just a moment of shut-eye. It hit me like a ton of bricks: she did this for me. Every time I cried, she was there, rocking me to sleep, and doing the same for my siblings. I once thought of her afternoon naps as laziness, but now I see it was exhaustion.
Before becoming a mother, I couldn’t fathom the challenges it entailed. There’s that moment when you find yourself alone with a tiny human, desperately searching for an instruction manual, only to realize that your own mom, who seemed to have it all figured out, was also just winging it. With each stumble I take as a parent, I gain a new perspective on her sacrifices.
Motherhood is a beautiful contradiction. How can someone forget to wash your soccer uniform but remember to call you every year on your birthday? How can someone whose cooking you once complained about drive across town to deliver your forgotten lunch? How could she cry on your first day of kindergarten yet support your dreams as you move miles away?
Looking back, I realize my empty baby book wasn’t a sign of disorganization, but rather evidence of a mother fully present in my life. She was busy nurturing me, teaching me, and showering me with love. The reason she didn’t whip up gourmet meals was that all kids crave are chicken nuggets and mac and cheese. By dinnertime, she was too frazzled to care!
She was late because my little brother threw a fit or the baby had a diaper explosion right when she was about to leave. She wasn’t the class mom because she was busy managing younger kids at home and working part-time to make family trips to Disney World possible.
Now, when she calls about the weather, I realize she misses the chaos and the laughter – the noise of kids running through the house, the tea parties, and T-ball games. She dedicated her life to ensuring we felt loved and safe, and now we can go days without connecting, sometimes even sending her calls to voicemail.
I finally understand the effort it takes to keep a family running. One Easter, years later, I opened a package to find she had created that long-awaited Easter basket. I was 22, and it was clear she had poured her heart into making it, cramming in the last-minute details to ensure it reached me on time. I didn’t grasp the significance then, but as my children grow more independent, I now see that basket as a symbol of her unwavering love – a reminder that she will always cherish the little girl I was.
Every year, as I unpack that basket, I’m reminded of her devotion, and it stands as the most precious gift I’ve ever received.
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In summary, my journey into motherhood has opened my eyes to the complexities of parenting. I now see my mother’s actions in a new light, realizing that her love and dedication were always present, even if they weren’t always obvious.