@Ree@Dreamwidth.org

I have gotten increasingly dissatisfied with my old Kindle Paperwhite 2 and wanted to try something that would natively read EPUB files. Managed to snag an old Kobo Mini for a song. I wasn't sure if I could cope with the lack of a lit screen, but I was willing to try.

Well. turns out I really, really miss that light. I like the interface, like holding the smaller device, but I don't love the correspondingly small screen and the dimness rankles constantly.

So now I have a lead on a slightly bigger, lit Kobo instead. What to do with the Mini?

Well, its small size and glass-free screen make it sturdy. The sleep cover adds some protection. And.... my kid likes it. Likes putting it in and out of sleep mode. Likes practicing letters in the Sketch Pad. Also I have a modest library of public domain children's books, all in DRM-free EPUB. Yup.

Guess I'll have to look into Kobo parental controls. :)

But I'm keeping the Mini until its successor arrives!

(Originally posted June 25th, 2009, on LiveJournal.)

My mother.

I don't know where to begin to describe her. She's a lofty example to aspire to: an excellent cook; a careful, safe driver; the best mother I could have.

I mean that, though I'm not sure she quite believes me. There are other mothers who are better equipped to handle a child who is profoundly disabled, or to help a child discover disparate parts of their racial identity, or shield a child against paparazzi. But I am not any of those children. I don't need those particular protections. For who I am, I could not ask for a better mother. I would want no other mother.

She has embraced me when I was at my lowest ebbs and cheered me on toward my highest peaks. Somehow she still loves me, despite knowing me better than anyone else knows. I live in awe of her selflessness and compassion. She's more than just the best mother I could have: she is also my friend, one whom I prize.

There is not an inch of my skin that is not written with my mother's genes, not a memory in my head that is not somehow shaped by the way my mother raised me, and I know that I am much improved for it. If I am sometimes petty or cruel, it is in spite of her teaching and her example; she raised to me know better, although I sometimes shamefully ignore that. And if I am occasionally caring, diligent, or generous, it is because my mother taught it to me.

If girls learn to mother from their mothers, then I know that I would be a strong, loving mother. Following her example could achieve no less.

If I thought it would make my mother happy to hear me yelling her praises from the rooftops, I would do it even now, at three in the morning in the pouring rain and pounding thunder. My mother did teach me to be sensible, however; if I must yell, I will wait for a saner hour and a drier roof.

I wish that I could write her a poem declaring the wonder I feel for her, something beautiful and rhythmic and worthy of her. But my poetic talent is insufficient. Anything I write would not be good enough to adequately convey the way I feel. Even as I write this piece, I keenly feel its flaws, but I hope it conveys what I mean regardless.

Someday, Mom, I will get things collated into that poem you deserve. In lieu of that, you have my endless admiration.

I love you, Mom. Thank you so much for being Mom.