I have never really understood some of the things my mom does.
Or maybe not the things per se, but the reasons why.
My mother has always been really good to me in all the really obvious ways. She has been a good provider for my brothers and I, and has always been very affectionate. As part of our little team, she has always played fair and done more than her fair share to ensure that our team performs well.
But then there are the not so obvious ways she is good to us.
Like the obsessive way she worries or that willingness to help.
I have lived on my own since I left for college at age 19. It was my last year of college and I was going to finish school in Germany. Of all the things I remember from the day I left, I remember a pouch full of “important items” that was in my backpack. A pouch she had placed there.
Because when I couldn’t see past the 10 hour plane ride, she looked ahead. And she knew that it would be a matter of time before I got a headache, or notice that I forgot my toothbrush, or even realized that I wasn’t going to be able to plug in my hair dryer without an adapter. So all the issues she could foresee, she quietly handled by inserting a red velvet pouch in my backpack.
And she always does this: She worries so that we don’t have to.
This past summer I had major surgery. I had never experienced anything like that before and for weeks, until I recovered, she was there taking care of me through my tantrums, through my frustrations, and through all the pain she knew I was feeling. I remember asking her why she was so intent on being there and not just hire a nurse.
“Because I am your mother,” she said.
Today I stayed home from work again. Although I am beginning to feel slightly better, today was also a bad day. I dragged myself out of bed to make some tea and drink some more meds but aside from that, I’ve been in bed all day. If only to not move. Being sick when you are alone makes being sick worse.
But she called. And texted. And called again. And when she heard I had a temperature, she volunteered to take the first flight out so there would be someone to take care of me. So she could make me soup and I wouldn’t be alone.
My mom is awesome.
I was not an easy kid to raise. I grew up with a passion that often blinds me. Sometimes I am neither as nice, nor as patient as I should be. Still, even at the tender age of 32, she calls me “nena” and does whatever it takes to keep me safe and well.
She says she does it because she is my mother.
I hope one day I can be a mother too…if only to understand what that means.