It makes me sad to hear that someone isn’t close with her mom because I’ve been lucky to always be close with mine. We have the same thick, wavy, and often unruly hair that started to turn gray too soon. We have the same junk in the trunk that makes jeans impossible to fit at the waist. We love writing, bargain shopping, and KU basketball. But being the same never matters as much as being supportive. And I’m grateful for all those times I’ve called her up to say, “Am I crazy?” and hear “No way.”
My mom wasn’t Martha Stewart or June Cleaver (and thank God for that, really), but she taught me to stir the flour slowly into the cookie dough, and took us on a gadzillion trips to Hobby Lobby to pick out paint-by-numbers and embroidery floss. Thanks to her, I’ve always known how to make things with my hands.
My mom can pick up a screaming newborn and pat it’s butt until it falls asleep in her arms. I look at a screaming newborn and go “what the hell do I do with this thing?” Someday I’ll know, and someday she’ll help me, and for now I’ll just say, thanks for being there, mom.
Isn’t she gorgeous?