As Mother’s Day rounds the corner of my calendar, I reminisce about my childhood and the kind of mother mine was (and is). Grab your tissues, because this was a hard write, so I’m sure it’s also a hard read.
My mother is kind to strangers, always willing to learn and try, and would not back down from a fight. She is loud and chaotic and always brings each day to life. She braided my hair so tight that my eyebrows stretched thin. She played old-school RnB while she cleaned the house. She sang with me on the porch when it rained. She let me climb into her bed to sleep any time my dad wasn’t home, even when I was grown. She held me in ways, during times, that only a mother could.
I am a mother now, to two incredibly intelligent, incredibly beautiful children. I watch my mother be their grandmother, be their “Honey.” I see her sing with them, hold them, and let them crawl into her bed and despite all the thankfulness that I have, to see her love them, I am jealous. Jealous that I grew up instead of staying her baby forever.
I know she’d hug me now and say “you’re still my baby” and I am, but growing up strips your childlike enamoredness of the world and I miss looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
My only hope for myself as a mother, is that my children grow up having a mother like mine.
Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.