Mom

My children do things now that brings back memories of my own childhood. Little things I least expect to trigger memories. Like some elaborate imaginary game that they want to tell me about, or when they climb into bed with Firedaddy and I in the morning. Or more recently, wanting to help in the kitchen, to bake cookies or stir things. Sometimes the funniest things will trigger a recollection of my own childhood, unexpectedly dusting off memories of my past I’d completely forgotten about.

And the thing is, these sweet memories also remind me of what a wonderful mother I have.

I do not have memories of her losing patience with me like I do with my own children. Surely she must have? Or perhaps I was a complete angel. OK, probably not, I mean… surely I must have talked her ear off the way Bug does. Or even thrown a few good tantrums the way Bean does (currently). I may have even smart-mouthed from time to time, like Bug is doing every now and then, testing his limits. I must have.

And yet, even if I did, my memories only serve up warm, happy times. Strangely, the few unpleasant memories I do have involve babysitters who made me take naps when I didn’t want to, or one in particular of an older lady sitter who sat in front of the TV the entire time while I sat in my room, sad and looking out my window for my mom’s car. But really, nothing earth shattering.

I was adopted as an infant, and my parents were always up front about that, while at the same time giving me a sense of how much I was cherished, that they were most definitely my parents no matter who had given birth to me. I have always been secure in this knowledge. So secure, in fact, that that I’ve never tried to find my birthmother. Of course I’m curious, just never enough to take any action.

Growing up, my mother had it hard for a number of different reasons. Partly, because of my dad’s job and the frequent moves it required. He worked for the National Park Service, so moving every so often was just a way of life for them, almost like the military. It was also hard for my sister and myself growing up, but I know it was even harder for my mom. She always wanted to just settle somewhere, set roots, have a sense of community.

She also had a difficult time, because my younger sister is hard of hearing. Since we lived in Zion National Park in Utah (which happens to be outside a very small town) when this was discovered, mom had to fight a lot of battles on her behalf, much more so than if we had lived anywhere near civilization.

She always insisted my sister learn to talk, and not depend solely on sign language. And even once we DID move to a larger city in another state, there were always battles to fight. As a mother now myself, I realize how painful it must have been for her to maintain that strength... for such a long time.

My mom was never a particularly religious person, but she still had a very deep and open-minded faith. She made sure I also had that foundation, taking me to church every now and then (and especially at Christmas and Easter), and even when we lived in mostly-Mormon Utah, she found a way for me to learn the foundation she related to most, by sending me to the home of another Park employee, where their Mother taught Catechism (we weren’t Catholic, but it served the purpose, nonetheless).

She made sure I had opportunities to grow talents and interests, taking me to piano lessons and recitals for years. And later, even though my sister was deathly allergic to horses, and had severe asthma, she took me to horseback riding lessons each week, ensuring that I changed clothes in the garage after each lesson. It must surely have been hard work, but she was committed. Because she knew I loved horses, and delighted in this activity.

When I look back, my mom did so much for me and it could not have been easy with what she had on her plate.

Later, when I was in my early 20’s, working and going to school, living on my own but in the same town as my mom, we’d get together for lunch or dinner every so often. Sometimes we rode our bikes to the restaurant. We had a close, easy-going relationship. We talked about politics, philosophy, love, whatever.

Shortly before I turned 24 and just months before my wedding, my parents moved away because of my dad’s job. This move must surely have been one of the hardest, as she was leaving me behind (my sister moved with them). And I think that them moving away at the same time as me starting a new life with my husband, was the beginning of the end for our easy-going, close relationship. So many things changed at that juncture.

Today, almost 15 years later, my parents and I still live over a thousand miles apart. My sister and her family live near them, which is good. But we only see them once or twice a year, and talk on the phone every week or two. Not often enough for my mom, I know. Life gets so busy, and I’m just not much of a phone talker, so picking it up just doesn’t come naturally to me. Firedaddy is always getting on me for this, too.

And when I try to put myself in her shoes and envision one of my own kids living far away, and not seeing or hearing from them often enough, it breaks my heart. So I try harder, for a time.

My mom has also been battling cancer for over 5 years. It started as breast cancer, but wasn’t caught until it had already spread to her bones, in a few areas. She’s fought hard… getting a mastectomy, radiation, so much chemo I can’t even remember how many times it’s been. It has tested her strength, her faith, her spirit. No matter how much her treatment takes over her daily life though, she doesn’t let it define her.

And here is what I know, the hardest part. My mom and I may not ever have the chance to re-gain the easy-going-ness of our relationship from the past, as we may never live close again. For me at least, it is just HARD to do it long distance.

Yet, I must find a way to re-connect with my Mom. She is a lovely, caring person, she gave me so much growing up, and I know she won’t be around forever. Of course, nobody will… but I guess it is just more apparent in her situation.

And most importantly, I love her. She should know this, I do tell her. But somehow that doesn’t seem like enough. It doesn’t seem carefree and easy enough.

My mom reads this blog from time to time, so I hope this can somehow convey to her how I really feel, deep down.

I hope she can see how I am more comfortable with the written word than the spoken word, at least when the spoken word only comes over the phone or during infrequent visits.

I hope she can see what a wonderful mom I think she is, what a happy childhood she gave me, and how I know how hard things must have been for her along the way, yet she mostly never let it affect me. The times I was affected, it only made me a better, stronger person.

I hope she knows there is absolutely nothing from my childhood she should ever be sorry for. She sheltered me just enough, but also let the real world in... just enough. She set the bar for me, as a mother… I see this now, so clearly.

I love you mom. With all my heart. I hope I can always be as good a mother as you are.