I can never write about my mother without feeling some sort of sadness. So, just a warning: if you are looking for rainbows and puppy dogs today, then you are not going to find them here.
You’d think that after all these years I’d have developed a thick enough skin to think about the loss of my mother pragmatically, but I can’t. I’ve tried to separate the emotion, but, it’s been an impossible task for me.
As Mother’s Day approaches I’m reminded of my mother and can’t help but draw comparisons and do a little chronological mathematics. I think about the fact that I have been a mother for as long as MY mother was given the chance to be a mother to my brother, my sister and myself.
I think about the kind of mother my mom was to me and I feel so incredibly blessed. She was such a kind and loving mother, for which I’m eternally thankful. I wish I could just be grateful for the time that I did have with her, yet I can’t help but feel ripped off. I didn’t have my mother for nearly long enough, and I’ve never been able to get over feeling a bit bitter about it.
Over the years my memories of my mother have lost their crisp edges. The exact situations and conversations are probably skewed and are hazy at best. I regret that.
I try to remember only the happy times, the times that I felt comforted and safe and loved and happy to be a carefree child. My heart smiles when I’m able to review those times and not lay them along side memories of me being a complete brat.
So, as Mother’s Day approaches, I’m going to think about events that made me happy. I’m going to recall my mom reading to me whenever I asked and taking the time to tuck me into bed each night. I’m going to think about how transparent she was in her love for me.
Instead of wishing I was a better daughter, I’m going to remember the sweet spirit that my mother possessed and try to be more like her.
I’m going to love up my children. I’m going to be grateful for the example my mother was to me AND give thanks for the time I did have with her.
I’m going to ignore the gray colors of sadness that sometimes accompany the bright when I think about my mom, and I’m going to embrace all the opportunities I have to be the kind of mother to my children that she was to me.
Because that’s what Mother’s Do.
She taught me that.
This was written in response to one of Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop Prompts.