(Bottom, from Left: Me, Robin, and Richie. Top, from left: Robbie, Mom, and Dad)
I wasn't exactly cherubic.
During my childhood, my Mother was a neverending well of encouragement, grace, and patience. Every poem, painting, or puff-paint t-shirt I made was received as a four-star masterpiece. She always knew the right thing to say, whether to put me at ease or put me in my place. I struggle to manage myself with her aplomb and be as calm and composed as consistently as she was.
During my teenage years, I gave her a run for her money. I wouldn't be surprised if there were days she didn't recognize me. I would lie, complain, skip homework, break curfew and defiantly light candles in my room. I even left them burning one day! I was a heart attack. She loved me anyway; she engaged me in conversation, listened when I spoke, wasn't afraid to roll her eyes and say "Oh, Goll..." but never discouraged me from being myself.
As a 25 year old mother now myself, she is still emotionally educating me. My mother is still the person I call in the middle of a kitchen catastrophe or when I suspect my daughter has contracted the Mad-Avian-Swine Flu. She's a Mommypedia but even when she doesn't have all the answers, she offers invaluable reassurance. Sometimes she laughs at me. Sometimes all three at once. The point is, I would be uninspired, wild, and skittish without my Mom. I would be a feral cat.
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