Another Mother's Day

A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials, heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts. – Washington Irving

Today is Mother's Day. It is the second Mother's Day I will spend without my mother. Being a mother is an amazing job. We all have a mother, but being a mother, somehow changes you in a way that you do not understand until it happens to you. Those who work with children, children of all ages, can relate to this feeling. We understand each child's needs, each child's wants and wishes. We become each mother's advocate, understanding the pain, the joy, the pride that they feel for their child. Having a mother and being a mother are two incredibly powerful pieces of my life that intertwine and mesh together, making me who I am.

Even once I became a mother, I always felt I was my mother's child. No matter how old I was, I always looked to her for her advice, her approval, her support, her friendship. I guess that never changes.

So often, we don't express in words, what we know, what we remember, what we appreciate about our mothers. On Mother's Day, we send cards, flowers, candy, and bring our mother's out to eat. Or...how many of us, over the years, have invited our own mother for family gatherings and spent the day, surrounded by those we love, but have continued to do all that mothers do; planning, preparing, cooking, and cleaning just for the joy of having our families with us.

James Stevenson wrote a book called, "I Meant to Tell You". He recounts his memories as a father, special moments he spent with his son, written in snapshot memoir fashion. This year, I asked my fourth grade students to write to their mothers, using Stevenson's book as their mentor text. As I read what each child wrote, I felt, what each of their mothers might feel. Their memories were thoughtful and well written. One student wrote:

"I meant to tell you that when I come home you are the only one who asks how my day went. I meant to tell you that you are funny twice a day and those two times a day are very funny. I meant to tell you that when you make me do sports outside of school it keeps me healthy and I thank you for that. I meant to tell you that you are the greatest mom ever even though some people say their mom is better. I meant to tell you that I hope you live a long time. I meant to tell you that I hope you have a great mother's day."

And so to my own mother:

I have written so many memoirs since you've been gone. When I sat with you in the hospital, those last days of your life, I told you that you were the best mother ever. I will never forget your reply, "I hope so." But I knew you were.

Over the years, I did tell you all the times I remember. But I meant to tell you how important they were to me and how they shaped my life.

I remember when you would whip the ivory soap flakes and put food coloring in so I could soap paint at the dining room table. You didn't mind that it made a mess. After all, it was soap.

I remember all the times you would sit cutting scraps of fabric to help me make doll clothes for my Ginny and Jill doll. And even in 8th grade for my French project you helped me make costumes for Jill and Jeff as part of my report.

When you hung the clothes out on the line, I would wash my doll clothes and blankets and hang them out too.

On windy days, I remember you would get towels for Robin and I and pin them with a diaper pin around our shoulders so we could pretend to be Superman.

I remember how you would come and play jumprope with all of us in the driveway. You taught us double dutch and lots of jumprope rhymes that girls today have never heard of. You were great at jumproping.

When we got our first hula hoops, you hula hooped right along with us until we would fall to the ground laughing so hard our sides hurt.

All the neighborhood kids loved to play in our yard, especially at dusk when we would play Kick the Can, Red Rover and Flashlight Tag. Sometimes, on hot summer evenings, you would holler for everyone to come and get a treat of popsicles or ice cream cones with Friendly's ice cream. We could always hear if someone was called home. There was no need to call on the telephone. A mother's voice would ring out loud and clear, "Jennnnnnifer!" Then you would say, "Time to call it quits, kids."

I want you to know how I loved going to the Yardstick with you after school, to pick out a pattern and fabric to make a new outfit. I remember how we would study the layouts of the pattern pieces and recalculate how much material was needed instead of using what the pattern suggested. We saved a lot of money by always getting 1/4 to 1/2 yd. less.

When you sang to us, all of the songs your mother taught you, all the old WWII songs, I could tell how much they meant to you. I remember Gramma's player piano and how the reels of songs were stacked up high to the ceiling. Grampa would put the reel on and let me help him pump to play the music. Everyone would gather round and sing. No matter what the occasion. When I was old enough, you made sure we had our own piano and Robin and Christie and I all took lessons. Then we could play those wonderful songs too. The songs I sang with you in the hospital that last week. "There's a Long Long Trail" and " Show Me the Way to Go Home".

It was a long time ago. But I do remember, and I will never forget how you always supported me in the decisions I made. And you were always so proud of me in whatever I did. When I was happy, you were happy and when my heart ached, so did yours.

I want to tell you that I am happy but my heart does ache to tell you these things. I suspect you know.