This isn’t about my mother. Nope, this is all about YOUR mother.
You know, the one who calls you once a week to talk about nothing. The one who sometimes disapproves of the way you don’t discipline your own children enough, or who tsks whenever you and your spouse argue. The one who reminds you that yes, you can do better, that if you’re mad at your boss it takes two to tango, that if you’d just be content with off brands and clipped more coupons, you’d have more in the bank and less debt on your credit card.
The mom who commiserated with you when you started going gray and who explained to you what menopause felt like. The one who chides you if you skip church on Easter. The one who tells you, every time you show up a few minutes late, that you’ll probably be late for your own funeral.
She flew in the first time you gave birth and stayed three weeks, showing you to put baby socks on her grandchild’s hands so he wouldn’t scratch his face and then embroidering the tackiest little blue sampler for the wall in the baby’s room. Who, a year later on his first birthday, competed with your mother-in-law over who would buy him the best present and topped her by a mile by getting your toddler a puppy. That damned old dog is on his last leg nowadays but is still digging holes in the backyard looking for imaginary moles.
Your mother cried at your wedding, then hounded you for weeks about writing out all those thank you notes. Now she has a new laptop and just added you on Facebook. Even though you’ve got three years’ worth of photos uploaded, she embarrassed you by going through them all and clicking “like” under every last one. Well, except for the one someone tagged you in, doing a shot of tequila at your office mate’s party. I guess she didn’t like that one.
I’m talking about your mother--every glorious, loving, maddening, pain-in-your ass check and balance you could ever want in your life.
You’re lucky she’s still around.