I can't recall my mother ever wishing a child like me on me. Even in the heat of battles royale, I don't think she ever said that to me. I don't think she ever even said, "Just wait until you have children of your own." I wouldn't be surprised if she thought that from time to time. Or if she said a silent prayer to God, "Let her kids treat her like this at least once. So she knows what it's like."
She kept those deep, dark thoughts to herself, if she ever had them. And, surely, she must have had them. [Stop calling me "Shirley"!]
God knows, I've had those thoughts and my kids haven't hated me with the intensity only a teenage offspring can muster for her parents. Given my track record to date, it will be a miracle if I manage not to say those things to my kids.
My mother put up with far too much. She put up with her verifiably nuts mother and alcoholic father. She put up with my own verifiably nuts and alcoholic father. She put up with five bickering, competitive, hating-each-other's-guts offspring. And she did it with grace. Grace.
I don't have that grace. I don't have so many of her abilities. I don't have her skills. I don't have her sociability. I don't have her charity. On a more primitive level, I also don't have her sewing or cooking or cleaning abilities. I don't have her style. But I have something she didn't have: I have her as a mother.
From time to time, my mom reads this blog. I hope she reads this and gets to see on screen for time immemorial how much I love her.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
[Only after posting this and then reading Mayberry Mom's do I realize this could qualify as part of the Parent Bloggers Network's blast this weekend. This weekend, folks are blogging about what their mothers' handed down to them. They're also talking up the second annual Celebrity Hand Me Down charity auction. Make sure you check out both. The auction runs through May 14.]