“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That is his.” – Oscar Wilde
Wednesday, November 26th
When I give that thoughtful moment to the woman that my Mom is and the complicated and difficult life that she has lived, I have an overwhelming sense of love and respect for her. But day-to-day, I find myself rolling my eyes or crying them out because of our less-than-perfect relationship. Today is my Mom’s birthday and I celebrate everything that she is (and isn’t).
My Mom gave birth to me because she wanted me. Not because she wanted a man, but because she wanted a child. With all the love in her heart and no money in her pocket, she set forth raising me on her own. She brought friends and a father into the fold, but I’ve always had a distinct feeling that this was the story of her and me. She has put me first so many times throughout her life – to give me everything that she could so that I could thrive in my life, and I’d like to think that I have. Thrived.
Happy birthday, Mom. I love you. If I’m attentive to my kids, then it’s because you chased me on rollerskates and made jellybean Easter posters with me. If I’m a good friend, then it’s because I have seen you support the same two women friends throughout my whole life – through their marriages and complicated living arrangements, the birth of their children, the death of a partner and husband, and all the mundane days in between. If I’m adventurous, it’s because I’ve seen you move from a vibrant metropolitan city to a small town to a slightly larger swanky seaside town back to the small town and then to a speck-on-the-map desert town and back to an even smaller town. And if I know a few dirty jokes, well, we all know who we have to blame for that…
How would you sum up your relationship with your mother?
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