Happy Mother’s Day to my mom whose love is bigger than ice cream.
When my mint chocolate chip ice cream fell off the cone and you handed me yours, I remember thinking, “I will never love someone enough to give them my ice cream.”
When you worked nights delivering babies at a hospital while your babies were home in bed, only to return and pack lunches, to nap instead of sleep, take us to school, and prepare meals that were never frozen or called in.
When I had a book of jokes, carried it into the car, the bathroom, and to dinner saying, “Mom, knock knock” repeatedly. For three months, you replied, “Who’s there?” mustering laughter at every corny punchline like I was a comic genius.
When you drove us to violin and piano lessons, the theatre, and softball practice, sitting in an auditorium or on bleachers saying, “Go Mozart, go Chopin, Go Chekov, go team!”
When you hosted slumber parties for 13 prepubescent girls and their 101 issues that came to fruition in the middle of the night, you tackled them with junk food and a flashlight saying, “It will all be better in the morning.”
When you were exhausted and ready for bed and I said “How about a game of Candy Land?,” you replied, “Okay honey,” even after working a 12-hour shift.
When I was sick and you’d sit on the bathroom floor, holding my hair back, taking my temp, to end up sleeping by the toilet basin, I never once suspected that you would rather be on a beach in Tahiti or curled up in bed with a good book.
When you forced us to write thank you notes and visit boring, old people in nursing homes. Even though we complained that it smelled like urine and all they did was talk about the war and good old days, you said, “Sometimes it isn’t about you. Sometimes it’s about the war and good old days and places that smell like urine.”
When you flew out to Los Angeles for the birth of your grandchild and showed me those first steps of how to be a mother.
When, four months later, you spent two weeks by a hospital bed, drinking coffee, and watching Dora the Explorer, asking the doctors and nurses the hard questions that I couldn’t think of because my baby was in a hospital bed.
When you prayed, fundraised, and gathered your village for us.
When you listened everyday to my fears and took on the heavy weight I couldn’t carry alone.
When you made every single person in your life feel that they are worth homemade brownies.
When I think of what you are to me.
When I am tired and overworked, exhausted, and rundown, or when Addie has dropped her ice cream off the cone and I give her mine without a thought and she says, “How about a game of Candy Land?”
When she is sick and I have to call doctors and pharmacies, and my life is on hold.
All I have to do is think of you and I know exactly what to do.
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