ode to my mother
This Mother’s Day post comes a day late, but gratitude and love for one’s mother should not be limited to a specific day anyway.
The phrase, “My mother, my mirror- - oh my!” floated around the Twittersphere yesterday. I smiled, because it perfectly describes my thoughts on the evolving relationship with my mother. The more time I spend with Ma, the more I find myself morphing into her quirky anxious and stressful ways. A scary thought at times, but I mostly find it reassuring. Mom has done well for herself- caring for 3 stubborn and admittedly difficult daughters, mastering colloquial English (sometimes even correcting mine), all while maintaining a picture perfect spic clean household with meals to die for. She boasts a petite bod to boot. Her spritely, persistent, and sometimes pushy nature always gets the job done. There is no other person in this world who I trust more.
My relationship with Mom has not always been tender, but as time passes, the sardonic retorts have become endearing symbols of our affection. From shopping buddies to cooking partners to Dancing with the Stars critics, we bounce between that line of deference and friendly banter. She’ll prick me with her pejorative comments, “You’re the worst.” I tell her she looks like Mao’s communist comrade with her short hair. It’s love.
I’d hire her any day. I didn’t have a choice in the matter, but my goodness, I’m thankful God did. My life is undeniably richer because of it.
Love you Momma. May you continue to keep life crisp and sharp…and no less biting.
