For the longest time, I viewed my mother as somewhat eccentric – a bit disorganized, perpetually running behind schedule, and often nagging. She had a collection of thank-you cards that would never see the mailbox and craft projects that were always just shy of completion. In fact, the saying “a day late and a dollar short” could very well have been coined for her. I can’t count how many times I was picked up late from school or activities, and on a few occasions, I was left waiting altogether. Her life seemed to operate on a ten-minute delay, and I’m convinced that the road paved with good intentions runs right through her driveway.
This past year was a milestone for her; she was thrilled when a package she sent for St. Patrick’s Day actually arrived on March 17. Unfortunately, it contained Valentine’s Day cards, but who’s counting? A month late feels trivial compared to the projects from my childhood. When I was just two, she started creating a stuffed cloth Easter basket for me. True to form, she got a bit behind, and the basket wasn’t ready in time for that Easter or the next. I’d occasionally stumble upon scraps of Strawberry Shortcake fabric tucked away in her sewing basket, and I would roll my eyes, asking if I should toss them. She would always insist on keeping them because she promised to finish it by next year. Spoiler alert: the basket never made it to a real egg hunt.
It wasn’t that she lacked the desire to stay organized; she simply had too many things boiling on the back burner – none of which anyone would want to eat. We’re talking about a woman who could ruin a roast from a distance. My lunches were no better. While other kids swapped snacks, my lunchbox was met with pity rather than envy. I was probably the only college student who eagerly awaited fall break just for a decent meal.
Recently, my mother has taken to calling me to share updates on the weather, in case I haven’t peeked outside, or to inform me about some groundbreaking herbal supplement she learned about on daytime television. These updates are much more welcome than the unsolicited parenting advice that often contradicts my own approach or even her past practices.
For ages, I thought my mom was just slow, perpetually fatigued, or scatterbrained. I assumed it was a character flaw – that every other mom managed to show up early, whisk their kids off to fine dining, and spend evenings scrapbooking their summer vacations. Then I had my first child.
Holding her in the middle of the night, nodding off while rocking her back to sleep for what felt like an eternity, I realized something profound: someone did this for me. Yes, someone woke up every time I cried, fed me, held me, and rocked me through the night, knowing they had to rise early the next day to send my siblings off to school all while battling exhaustion. Yet, when I’d catch her napping in the afternoon, I labeled her as lazy.
Before becoming a parent, it’s nearly impossible to grasp the complexities of motherhood. There comes a moment when you find yourself alone with a tiny human, searching for a manual that doesn’t exist, and you realize that your mother, who always seemed to have the answers (even if you didn’t appreciate them), was just winging it. Each misstep you take as a parent brings new understanding of your own mother.
Motherhood is a paradox, a constant balancing act that children often misinterpret. How could someone forget to wash your soccer uniform yet remember your birthday down to the second? How could the same person whose cooking you criticized one day drive across town to deliver a forgotten lunchbox? How could someone who sobbed on your first day of kindergarten let you move away after college to chase your dreams?
The behaviors that confused me as a child are crystal clear now. My baby book wasn’t empty due to disorganization; it was devoid of entries because she was busy living life with me. Busy teaching me to walk, helping me talk, reading bedtime stories, playing games, and most importantly, loving me. The lack of gourmet meals wasn’t neglect; it was simply the reality that kids often prefer chicken nuggets over fine dining, and parents, by dinner time, are too frazzled to care.
She was late picking me up because my little brother had a meltdown over a crooked sock, or the baby had a diaper disaster moments before leaving the house. She wasn’t the class mom because she had younger siblings to care for and a part-time job to support our family’s Disney dreams. She wasn’t disorganized; she was attempting to juggle twenty things at once, with kids clamoring for her attention and no Internet to distract them.
Now, she calls about the weather because she misses the daily chaos and the laughter – the tea parties and T-ball games. There’s no one running off the bus to embrace her, no one asking her to sing them to sleep at night. She sacrificed so much to ensure we were happy, safe, and loved, and now, as adults, we sometimes let her calls go to voicemail.
Understanding the sacrifices a mother makes to keep the family afloat has changed my perspective entirely. I realize now that she may not have had the luxury of time to hand-sew an Easter basket, yet one Easter, I unwrapped a package to find she had done just that. I was twenty-two years old and could picture her, up late following an old pattern, hands cramping as she stuffed it, racing to the post office at the last moment to ensure it didn’t miss another Easter. While I appreciated the gesture, I didn’t understand why she would put in so much effort after all those years… until my own children began needing me less.
And then it clicked. That basket was a reminder that she would never forget about me. Each year as I unpack it, it symbolizes the little girl I will always be in her eyes, a testament to a mother’s unwavering devotion. It remains the greatest gift I’ve ever received.
Summary:
Reflecting on the journey of motherhood, I’ve come to appreciate the sacrifices my own mother made. From the chaos of daily life to the seemingly small gestures, I now understand the profound love and effort behind her actions. It’s a reminder that, despite imperfections, the essence of motherhood is woven through every moment spent together.
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