Happy Mother's Day!
My five year old, Mike, has this very endearing habit: he tells me throughout the day that he loves me. Perhaps this sounds like no big deal, but it is the way that he says it, with his voice just dripping with love, that makes it so special.
He tells me that he loves me when I’m helping him do something, such as tying his shoes. But he has also been known to pour out an “I love you, mom” just because I walked into a room.
Mike is especially full of love when I have been gone for awhile, whether that means being out of town for several days or even if I’ve just been at work for a few hours. My absence results in declarations of love that are punctuated with hugs, kisses, backrubs, hair stroking, and snuggling.
“Why do you love me?” I asked Mike one afternoon after receiving a barrage of wide-eyed ‘I love you’s.’ I expected an answer that involved my attempts to meet his incessant needs, or my delicious macaroni and cheese, or my unwavering commitment to read him “Captain Underpants” on a nightly basis.
But instead, Mike looked at me with his eyebrows raised with no effort to hide his disbelief at the stupidity of my question and then said pointedly, “I love you because you’re my mom.”
Of course it’s not that simple. A relationship with a mother, especially as you get older, is a very complex thing after all. So I made my own list of some of the reasons I love my mom. Here goes…
I love that my mom unfailingly showed up for every one of my middle school basketball games even though the only points I scored all season were for the other team.
I love that my mom never blinked an eye when I came home while in high school with a purple Mohawk or when my brother came home with eight earrings in one ear and a tattoo. I love that my mom loved me when I was fat and pimply and wore thick glasses and had very bad 80’s hair. I love that my mom loved me when I failed, got fired, quit, or just generally couldn’t get my act together. She always believed that I would.
My parents gave me a very strict curfew in high school, operating under the theory that the only thing a teenaged girl could do after midnight was to get into trouble. But while they insisted that I be at home, they threw open our doors to my friends – many of whom had no curfew at all. I loved that my mom would then stay awake with us all – making pizza, listening to our stories, or watching movies – until the last person left for home. Even as a 16 year-old girl, I loved this about my mom.
I love that my mom is game to hop onto a plane to anywhere and that she’s a great travel companion. I love that when I told my mom I was going to travel around the world by myself, including a visit to a war zone, she said she wished she could go too. I love that she never asked me to call her. And I love that when I got home, she started sobbing as soon as she saw me and told me that she had worried incessantly about me for months.
I love that even though I am an adult with my own children, my mom is still so proud of my accomplishments. She probably carries copies of each of these articles with her in her purse and shows them to anyone who makes the mistake of asking her how I’m doing. I know she is armed with pictures of her grandchildren.
I love that my mom sends me handwritten notes in the mail or articles from my hometown newspaper that she thinks I might find interesting or recipes she thinks I will like. I love that she calls to see how I’m doing or how something went or just because.
And while these things all might sound specific to my mom, they’re not. They’re every mom because what it boils down to is nobody will love you like your mom. Nobody will be a bigger cheerleader. Nobody will be a better friend. Nobody else will cry right along with you when your feelings are hurt or when you’ve been defeated. Nobody will think of you more often. Nobody else will love you no matter what. Nobody else will think that you’re the best – THE BEST – at whatever you attempt. Nobody will believe in you more. Nobody.
Maybe Mike, in his five year-old way, was onto something big. So to my own mom, I know you’re reading this – even though you’re 2,000 miles away – and I just wanted to say in a voice dripping with love, “I love you because you’re my mom.” It’s just that simple. Happy Mother’s Day.Labels: Columns
My five year old, Mike, has this very endearing habit: he tells me throughout the day that he loves me. Perhaps this sounds like no big deal, but it is the way that he says it, with his voice just dripping with love, that makes it so special.
He tells me that he loves me when I’m helping him do something, such as tying his shoes. But he has also been known to pour out an “I love you, mom” just because I walked into a room.
Mike is especially full of love when I have been gone for awhile, whether that means being out of town for several days or even if I’ve just been at work for a few hours. My absence results in declarations of love that are punctuated with hugs, kisses, backrubs, hair stroking, and snuggling.
“Why do you love me?” I asked Mike one afternoon after receiving a barrage of wide-eyed ‘I love you’s.’ I expected an answer that involved my attempts to meet his incessant needs, or my delicious macaroni and cheese, or my unwavering commitment to read him “Captain Underpants” on a nightly basis.
But instead, Mike looked at me with his eyebrows raised with no effort to hide his disbelief at the stupidity of my question and then said pointedly, “I love you because you’re my mom.”
Of course it’s not that simple. A relationship with a mother, especially as you get older, is a very complex thing after all. So I made my own list of some of the reasons I love my mom. Here goes…
I love that my mom unfailingly showed up for every one of my middle school basketball games even though the only points I scored all season were for the other team.
I love that my mom never blinked an eye when I came home while in high school with a purple Mohawk or when my brother came home with eight earrings in one ear and a tattoo. I love that my mom loved me when I was fat and pimply and wore thick glasses and had very bad 80’s hair. I love that my mom loved me when I failed, got fired, quit, or just generally couldn’t get my act together. She always believed that I would.
My parents gave me a very strict curfew in high school, operating under the theory that the only thing a teenaged girl could do after midnight was to get into trouble. But while they insisted that I be at home, they threw open our doors to my friends – many of whom had no curfew at all. I loved that my mom would then stay awake with us all – making pizza, listening to our stories, or watching movies – until the last person left for home. Even as a 16 year-old girl, I loved this about my mom.
I love that my mom is game to hop onto a plane to anywhere and that she’s a great travel companion. I love that when I told my mom I was going to travel around the world by myself, including a visit to a war zone, she said she wished she could go too. I love that she never asked me to call her. And I love that when I got home, she started sobbing as soon as she saw me and told me that she had worried incessantly about me for months.
I love that even though I am an adult with my own children, my mom is still so proud of my accomplishments. She probably carries copies of each of these articles with her in her purse and shows them to anyone who makes the mistake of asking her how I’m doing. I know she is armed with pictures of her grandchildren.
I love that my mom sends me handwritten notes in the mail or articles from my hometown newspaper that she thinks I might find interesting or recipes she thinks I will like. I love that she calls to see how I’m doing or how something went or just because.
And while these things all might sound specific to my mom, they’re not. They’re every mom because what it boils down to is nobody will love you like your mom. Nobody will be a bigger cheerleader. Nobody will be a better friend. Nobody else will cry right along with you when your feelings are hurt or when you’ve been defeated. Nobody will think of you more often. Nobody else will love you no matter what. Nobody else will think that you’re the best – THE BEST – at whatever you attempt. Nobody will believe in you more. Nobody.
Maybe Mike, in his five year-old way, was onto something big. So to my own mom, I know you’re reading this – even though you’re 2,000 miles away – and I just wanted to say in a voice dripping with love, “I love you because you’re my mom.” It’s just that simple. Happy Mother’s Day.
Labels: Columns
posted by Sara @ 9:13 PM
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