Three years ago, three weeks before Mother’s Day, my mother stood by my side and held my hand, tightly, as I gave birth to Julian. She and Scott counted together, “one, two, three, four…” as I pushed. It was a moment of pain, of grief, of love—and I wouldn’t give up that memory for anything.
I am overwhelmed with unexpected grief today for my mother. I miss her. I need her comforting presence by my side—a presence I all too often took for granted.
I am also tremendously grateful, today, for all the things she gave to me. A love of books and language. A curiosity about the world that fuels a need to keep learning and expanding my horizons. A love of baking (and eating) sweet treats: thanks, Mom.
Mom also taught me about forgiveness and reconciliation. I always knew her forgiveness was real—because her anger and disappointment was so real. All of my siblings who encountered that quiet anger—the narrowed eyes and small, twitching muscle in her cheek—know what I’m talking about. But once she forgave a mistake, she never mentioned it again.
I truly believe she simply put our mistakes and our many flaws out of her mind and only thought of us as our best possible selves. She made me want to be the person she thought I was.
Thanks, Mom, for reading me bedtime stories every night, for introducing me to cream puffs, for teaching me to say, “I’m sorry,” and for teaching me how to be a mother.
