Avoiding Crisis

for my mother

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A few weeks ago I came across this Mother/Daughter Campaign on the Huffington Post. At that time, there were just a few essays/comments. Today there are many more. All heartfelt and touching. Wonderful words written by a wide range of individuals – some well known writers, commentators and politicians and others just plain simple folk like you and me. It’s worth perusing if you have the time.

Initially, I thought about writing a personal story to submit for inclusion on the site. While I did write something a few weeks back, I did not follow through and submit it. I’m not sure why I didn’t just send it in. Maybe I wanted to keep it for myself and share it here, among friends. Maybe it just seems to personal to share on such a popular site for anyone to read.

I didn’t come up with anything spectacular or particular moving. I wish I could write about my mother the way that others can. But I can’t. And it’s not because I don’t have anything to say or because I don’t know how to say it, or even because it’s too emotional to write about. It’s just that there is simply too much to write about. I don’t know where to begin.

So here’s the first thing that came into my mind when I thought about writing something about my mother.

It was nearly 15 years ago when I received a letter from my mother. It was part of an assignment for a High School health class and it was supposed to come from my best friend. It came from my mother instead. It was better that way. I know that now.

It was handwritten on college lined paper. It was several pages long, written in black ink. She didn’t use flowery language, her words were not sugar coated. It was simple.

I laughed and I cried.

She told me that I was a beautiful young women who she was proud of, but how I always made mountains out of mole hills (her exact words, I remember) and was too hard on myself. She told me how I was extraordinary and special and how I was able to leave a lasting and profound mark on the lives of everyone around me. She saw me as I never could, as no teenager really can.

I don’t know where that letter is today, probably in storage. How I wish I had it to read. I can close my eyes and picture the cursive writing, the beautiful slant of her penmanship, the fluidity of her words.

To think of it, I don’t know if I even have the letter anymore. That makes me sad. The 16 year-old me didn’t appreciate that letter; but now, the 29 year-old me longs to hold it in my hands and read it over and over again. To read it to my daughter and tell her how wonderful a person her grandmother is for having written it. To tell her that one day I’ll do the same for her.

And maybe one day, I’ll write my mom a letter telling her just how much I admire her and how proud of her I am for having had the courage and strength to raise three children, especially when one of them was me. I’ll tell her just how wonderful a friend she has become and how I can only hope that one day I am able to have the same type of relationship with my daughter as I have with her. And that although, we’ve had our moments, our ups and downs, I always knew that she loved me no matter what and that I’ve always loved her more than she could ever imagine. One day, maybe, I’ll write her a letter and tell her all those things and then some.

I don’t know if I ever told my mom how much that letter actually meant to me. I guess this is a start.

Mom, Happy Mother’s Day!

And…to all you mom’s out there…happy mother’s day to you too!

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Written by nicolemarie

May 13, 2007 at 8:43 pm

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