Today is Ash Wednesday but it is also my Mother’s birthday.
I remember sitting around in some convention green room with a bunch of people with one of those wandering conversations going. You know the ones that go from point A to point B only with many side trips to the rest of the alphabet. Some how the topic drifted to complaining about parents. Everyone was venting about parents and how they didn’t understand them or how they outright abused them. The conversation got to me and I said, “I got nothing.” Some people said that couldn’t be true but those who knew my parents said, “She is telling the truth.”
I really don’t have anything to complain about from my childhood. I am sure at the time I could have given a laundry list of little complaints but they were the usual things children grouse about. I had a good childhood. I was warm, fed, and clothed. I knew I was loved. I knew my parents loved each other. It was a really good situation to grow up in.
My mother made me things like clothing. I had these really great jumpers she made me for the summer. She made me a sit-a-upon for Girl Scouts that I can still use to this day and she was clever creating handles that one could loop through a belt so that you didn’t have to carry it. She did craft projects with me. She baked me the best birthday cakes ever. She kissed boo-boos and explained the world to me.
She taught me the basics of cooking and eventually had me cook dinner once or twice a week so I could learn that magic formula of how to get everything done on time. If we wanted to learn something, she was willing to teach us.
She taught me that women could do anything that they put their minds to. She kept the monsters away at night.
I had minimal sick days during the school year. Hard to pull something over on a nurse but when we were sick, she took care of us and made sure that we knew that this too shall pass. She taught me how to deal with nicks, cuts, and scrapes. And how to know if it was something that needed more than what we had to home. I learned how to wrap a sprain and other first aid things from her.
She is a shining example to all my siblings.
She loves her grandchildren and they love their Baba.
Happy Birthday Mom! I love you.
I am still grateful that my Mom is my Mom.
I remember sitting around in some convention green room with a bunch of people with one of those wandering conversations going. You know the ones that go from point A to point B only with many side trips to the rest of the alphabet. Some how the topic drifted to complaining about parents. Everyone was venting about parents and how they didn’t understand them or how they outright abused them. The conversation got to me and I said, “I got nothing.” Some people said that couldn’t be true but those who knew my parents said, “She is telling the truth.”
I really don’t have anything to complain about from my childhood. I am sure at the time I could have given a laundry list of little complaints but they were the usual things children grouse about. I had a good childhood. I was warm, fed, and clothed. I knew I was loved. I knew my parents loved each other. It was a really good situation to grow up in.
My mother made me things like clothing. I had these really great jumpers she made me for the summer. She made me a sit-a-upon for Girl Scouts that I can still use to this day and she was clever creating handles that one could loop through a belt so that you didn’t have to carry it. She did craft projects with me. She baked me the best birthday cakes ever. She kissed boo-boos and explained the world to me.
She taught me the basics of cooking and eventually had me cook dinner once or twice a week so I could learn that magic formula of how to get everything done on time. If we wanted to learn something, she was willing to teach us.
She taught me that women could do anything that they put their minds to. She kept the monsters away at night.
I had minimal sick days during the school year. Hard to pull something over on a nurse but when we were sick, she took care of us and made sure that we knew that this too shall pass. She taught me how to deal with nicks, cuts, and scrapes. And how to know if it was something that needed more than what we had to home. I learned how to wrap a sprain and other first aid things from her.
She is a shining example to all my siblings.
She loves her grandchildren and they love their Baba.
Happy Birthday Mom! I love you.
I am still grateful that my Mom is my Mom.