My Mother's Day

The first memory I have of my childhood was when I was 5. We all lived in the "big white house". And by all, I mean lots of our family. 1 aunt, 1 uncle + wife, 1 other child uncle, my mother, sister, and I. I loved that house. We had some great times there. My aunts and I would watch Care Bears together, and when there was thunderstorms and lightning, they would make us less scared by saying that it was just God flipping the lights on and off. We would flip our lightswitches off and on with him. And the thunder was just God playing the drums. We would play our own imaginary drums. That house was where I learned to tie my shoes using some wierd shoe/foot thing with red shoelaces.

When I was 7, my mom told me we were moving. I was so angry. My friends were by that big white house. I was a quiet child and didn't make friends easily. My aunts were there. My family was there. I didn't understand why we had to leave. My mom tried the best she could to explain that she got a job (we were on public assistance before then) and this really wasn't an opportunity she couldn't pass on. It would be better for us. I didn't believe a word she was saying.

As usual, she was right. The neighbors in our new house had kids-even a daughter-who became my best friend. We outgrew each other after awhile but it was nice to always have someone around. My mom worked hard. I know that everything she did, every promotion or class she took, she did for us. As the years passed, my mother and I got closer. I could often be found-even as a teenager-sitting next to my mother with my head on her shoulder. If I had a bad day, I would talk with her about it. If my friends and I were fighting, my mom could be the rational one and remind me to think of their feelings before I said anything.

On my first mothers day, I was 19. I was 7 months pregnant, broken up with my child's father, and living with my mother. This was not the ideal situation for me at all. I was stubborn and independant. I had been taking care of myself for a whole whoppin' year by myself. Me moving back in with her was taking a step in the wrong direction. This was not how my life was supposed to be. I was supposed to be a normal 19 year old kid. Not a pregnant one who couldn't even shave her legs.

The impact of my decision to keep my son hadn't quite sunk in-not until Mother's Day. My mother gave me a gold heart pendant necklace with a woman holding her baby. When I was looking at it, something finally snapped in me. I was having a child. I would be his parent. I would be who he came to for reassurance. Or scraped knees. I would always be required to love the person inside me. I would WANT to love that person. That was such an overwhelming feeling. I wanted a do-over. My mom just stood by me doing whatever she could to make me a little less miserable-both physically and emotionally.

As the years passed since my son was born, I turned from parent to mommy. All those things I was afraid of, I transitioned into. I now have a loving, caring, affectionate, talkative, happy child. And every time he makes me a little crazy, I call my mom. I apologize for my behavior as a child and thank her for putting up with me. And everytime my son says "I love you", I know he can be okay with that because I taught him it's alright. And I could teach him that because my mother passed it onto me. It makes you a good person. Like my mommy.