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for my mother (repost)
2021-12-30 07:15 am(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.
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.
