Thanks, Mom

I don’t know how to begin to thank the woman who handled disgusting tasks for me, built up my self-confidence, endured my nastiness and watched me leave home.

At Ocean Shores, Wash.
At Ocean Shores, Wash.

My mom worked nights, so she’d be home during the day in case my siblings and I needed something delivered to school, to stay home sick or to drive us to tennis/soccer/piano.

She went without, so she could provide us everything we needed and a lot of what we wanted – or thought we wanted because all the cool kids had it.

She didn’t let it show when I hurt her feelings with my snottiness. Or when I cried about not being pretty enough or smart enough or wanting something I couldn’t have.

She let me try everything I wanted to try. She told me she was proud of my courage and loved me through my failures.

It takes a special kind of woman to be a mom. It’s often a thankless job of listening to whining, cleaning up other people’s messes, bearing the brunt of frustrations, going to awful band concerts when you’d rather be … anywhere else, listening to teenagers scream about hating her and wanting to leave. I don’t know if I have it in me to do this job.

And the reward for doing the job for 18 years? Watching your little investment leave, rejecting the life you provided her, calling only when it’s convenient for her and visiting only at the holidays.

OK sometimes you get adorable grandchildren to love on, a cool adult child to share a beer with or successful offspring to support you.

Cute grandbaby to play with.
Cute grandbaby to play with.

Or you continue your mom job, taking the, “Mom, I have the flu,” “do I need stitches for this,” “I need money” calls.

Thanks, Mom, for all you’ve done for me. I love you.

Published by Candace

I’m a journalist, nutritionist, doting auntie, one-time bobsledder, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.

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