Mom, The Powerhouse of Our Family

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My mother celebrates her eightieth birthday this week.  As I pondered this milestone in my mother's life, I decided to write about my childhood memories of her.

Shocked, I realized that specific memories escaped me.  Instead I found a general feeling of presence. And I asked myself, "Why?"

The answer was obvious. Mom permeates everything about my youth.  She gave birth to me, rocked me, and sang lullabies to me, even if I was too old when I asked.  She cared for us, cooked, and cleaned.  On rainy days, she popped popcorn.  On snowy days, hot chocolate and a warm fire waited to thaw us out when we tumbled back inside.  Mom, the powerhouse that fueled every moment of her family's life, provided the threads that knitted us together.  Better than the cotton that claims to be the fabric of our
lives, there is Mom.

My specific memories focus on points where she stepped out of the solid background of our family and showed a different side than I was used to:  the day she took me out of school early because my best friend's mother had committed suicide and my friend wanted me by her side; the afternoon after my oldest sister's wedding when Mom disappeared to a quiet part of the house to cry; a tumble down the stairs that left my formidable mother lying in the floor, my younger sister and I hovering, unsure what to do.  She even taught me where to kick when a very large girl began bullying me in the seventh grade (luckily I never had to try that kick).  Each of these stand out because of the contrast with the smooth world she created for us.

Of course, there are other memories that stand out.  Unlike my siblings and father, Mom and I are not afraid of heights.  She's the one who rode the Ferris Wheel or Roundup with me.  She danced us around the kitchen, the tango typically her favorite, ending with a dip at the end.  And in Putt Putt, Mom usually got the hole in one and the best score.

She's there morning, noon, and night. Not overpowering, just contributing to our lives in the way that mothers do.  Thank God for Mom.

Happy birthday Mom.  I love you.

Comments

Scout said…
Babs, as I was taught to call her, has always been a rock of strength wrapped in the cashmere of southern charm. Please give her my love and best wishes. I deeply respected the fact that she always looked me right i the eye when i talked to her. A rare thing. A true sign of respect.
September 17, 2010 at 3:40 PM
Bob Strother said…
Every mom should have a daughter to sing her praises as eloquently as you have.
September 17, 2010 at 3:59 PM
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