Ode To My Mother

Mother's Day was yesterday, and I'm pretty sure I failed at making her day in any way special.  Although I did see her, I didn't do much more than be my sarcastic self.  I even forgot to bring her the present I had.  

This isn't my first failure.  My mom and I had a tumultuous relationship growing up--mostly because I knew everything and she didn't.  That, and we had different ideas about the basic elements of daily life.  You know, like what was edible food and what wasn't, whether or not black grime under fingernails was acceptable, and why I had to school every day.

It took going to college to figure out that perhaps--just perhaps--she wasn't actually the Wicked Witch of the West (although she does have a "look" that we still call the "Wicked Witch look").  Of course, this paradigm-shift didn't happen overnight, but, eventually, I did figure out an important truth:

Mom is Mom, and she loves me.

I might even love her. 

Don't get me wrong.  She still drives me crazy, and there's a LOT of things we disagree about.  I certainly haven't been able to give up my enjoyment of pushing her buttons or, in any way, curbed my smart-alecky tongue.  But I think we might have an understanding, an understanding that, despite all evidence to the contrary, we do love each other.  And that's progress.  Believe me, that's serious progress.

So today, on Not Mother's Day, I'd like to publicly tell my mom thank you.

Thank you for your frequent attempts to sweep up the dog hair wafting across my wood floors.  Thank you for listening to my irrational ranting and raving when I haven't had enough adult contact.  Thank you for showing me that the boys' dirty laundry basket actually does have a bottom and isn't the black hole I've always suspected.  Thank you for accepting that I hate your pink purse and not being mad when I don't notice your new make-up.

(Oh, and thank you for not requesting a child transfer when I was growing up.)

Thank you for everything you do.  I love you, Mom.