I think most everyone thinks that their mothers are the best. And they are. For them. But I have the perfect mother. For me.
My mom doesn’t like to be in the spotlight, but it’s Mother’s Day and I’m her favorite daughter. So I’m taking some leeway.
She was raised by a single mother, and spent her early years helping to raise her younger brothers and sisters. And including her, there were nine of them all together; three boys and six girls. Maybe that’s one of the reasons family is so important to my mom. She came from a family where everyone looked out for each other.
With all of those girls in the family, you might expect my mom to be a “girlie girl”. But that’s the last thing she is.
She’d rather wear blue jeans than dressy clothes. She hardly ever wears makeup, because she doesn’t need to. She’s funny and smart, and she doesn’t sugarcoat anything. If you want an honest opinion about something, just ask my mom. She’s the first one to tell me if my hair looks bad, or if my jeans are too tight. To this day.
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Dad and I go on adventures. We’ve saddled up our horses, and conquered mountains. We have hypothetical conversations about anything you can imagine. We dream of traveling around the country by train, stopping off in Montana and galloping across Big Sky country; cruising around the frigid Alaskan seas and getting so close to an iceberg that the chill of it burns our lungs.
But I’m a mama’s girl too, it’s just more unspoken.
Mom’s idea of a perfect vacation is staying at home, cleaning her house from top to bottom, cooking big family dinners, watching movies, and reading a good book. Watching movies and reading books I can relate to, but the cooking and cleaning I absolutely despise. I always have. But that never mattered to Mom.
Don’t get me wrong. She’d make me do my share of cleaning, but she always knew that I’d rather be outside, playing with my dog and my horse, or tagging along with Dad and Jason; so she let me. I was a tomboy, but she never wanted me to be anything other than myself. And when I was a kid, I think I took my mom for granted. Maybe all kids do. She was my rock. She took care of me, played with me, read to me, and disciplined me.
She could wield a fly swatter like nobody’s business. And she kept it handy; hanging on a hook right outside the kitchen door. To this day, when I hear the smack of that flimsy weapon, I have to suppress the urge to shut my mouth and run outside.
But more than anything, my mom believed in me. She still believes in me. She thinks that I can do anything, and she has this way of making me believe it too.
In September of 2011, Dad called and told me that Mom had breast cancer. I couldn’t believe it. I knew she’d had to have a biopsy; I’d even went to the hospital with her for her tests. But my mom was never sick. She never complained. It couldn’t be real. A fear gripped my heart like I’d never known, and I hope that I never know again.
But I won’t go into detail with that, because my mom’s a private person. I’ll just say I watched my mom go through Hell and back, and I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. But she beat it. She never let cancer define her, and she showed me what being tough really is.
And I learned the power that love has. My dad’s number one priority was taking care of my mom. Her brothers and sisters took turns cooking meals for the entire family. My brothers and I ran errands and tried to make life as easy as possible for Mom. But she was the true hero.
She’s still my hero, and she’s my best friend. I can tell my mom anything. I call her every morning on my hour-long drive to work. She keeps me up to date on everything. We talk about books, movies, family, gossip, and life.
I’ve made the comment to her that she’s always worrying about my brothers, but never about me. She tells me that she doesn’t have to worry about me, because I always take care of myself.
But that’s not true… she took care of me. And if I can be half as smart and as tough as my mama, then I’m a success. I love you Mom. You’re the most beautiful person I know.
