And I only have one.
One that “I” didn’t even birth.
One that I got when she was 14. Now she’s a week from being 16, and I’m worn to the bone.
And I’m not juggling 3 kids, keeping food on the table, keeping a working husband happy.
All while I’m going back to school.
Full-time, no less.
Yeah. School. To be a teacher for 20 years and take on other people’s kids.
I’m not trying to keep one from going boy crazy and ending up pregnant before she’s out of school.
I’m not trying to get one into college and moved off hours away while wondering how we’re going to afford it.
I’m not trying to find time to pray because my new baby needs open heart surgery.
Nope. I’m just putting clothes in the dryer at 2:30 in the morning. Because that’s when I can get to it.
I am beginning to understand what, “You have to know heartache to feel happiness sometimes” means. And now I’m also catching on to the meaning of the words, “You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
I’m sorry I never told you how delicious dinner was after you were in the kitchen for what must’ve seemed like forever. Nothing quite like sweating it out for hours, only to get, “It’s ok”, huh?
I wish I would have listened when you said to be choosy with girlfriends.
I’m glad you made me go to church. But I hated when you pinched my ear across the pew because I was fidgeting and not listening.
I’ve heard myself mumble the words, “Is it ever good enough??” And I’m fairly certain you did, too. Especially when Santa brought me my very own TV for my room and my first comment was, “It’s ONLY black and white?”
I’ve looked at the clock at 12:17 a.m., then again at 2:32 a.m., then again at 3:27 a.m. Then I kinda cried when I hit the alarm for the 2nd time at 4:30 a.m. and I wanted to call in sick so bad, but crawled my way to the bathroom to get dressed for work, because, well…her birthday is coming and money doesn’t grow on trees.
I’m pretty sure you probably did the same thing many times.
Which is why I do it.
As much as we fought and as much as we argued….and as much as you let me hate you because I seemed to think I knew what was better for me than you did but you made me do it your way anyway…thank you.
Your way was the right way.
I’ve never cried the words, “How did my mother do this for all those years?” so much in my life as I have in the last 2 years.
And you did it with manicured nails. (Which I thought was dumb…because I knew more than you.)
And the perfect hairstyle. (Which I thought was old-fashioned…because I knew more than you.)
And flawless make-up. (Which I thought was way too much work…because I knew more than you.)
And stylish clothes. (Which I thought was old-lady-looking…because I knew more than you.)
It has taken me 45 years to see what all you sacrificed and did without, while putting your best foot forward for so many years, so I could simply be unappreciative.
And such a know-it-all.
And such a bitch sometimes. (OK…lots of the time.)
Thank you for every friggin’ thing you did way back then and every friggin’ thing you do now.
I never knew how much you loved me…until 2 years ago.
(Dad….I know you had a giant hand in everything Mom did for me. I know you were the foundation of our family. But it’s Mother’s Day, and well…you get it.)