“Did I plant these too low?” I ask my mother over Facetime, ignoring the fact that she is out of the house with friends. I presumptively believe she would have nothing more important to do than help her 35-year-old daughter learn how to plant flowers at her new house.
Of course, she does have many, many more important things to do, but she never makes me feel that’s the case. One thing I have known without a doubt is that my mom would drop everything and do anything for me and my siblings, no matter how much we abuse the privilege.
Living with such assurance of my mom’s devotion is not a small thing. It shapes my core and self-confidence, and it is the number one gift I strive to give my own kids now that I am a mom of two. I want them to know in their bones—as I do—that they are loved, cherished, and adored.
As I strive to replicate my favorite parts of my upbringing, I’ve noticed some unconscious ways I’ve begun morphing into my mother. It will happen when I hear a familiar phrase come out of my mouth for the first time or my sister asks, “Doesn’t mom have that dress?” In the way I call my kids “Sweet Pea” and how they know the words to “Golden Slumbers” by heart. The way I automatically make my mom’s peanut butter dip to go with my kids’ apple slices or yell, “I just want one picture!” while wrestling them down.
And then there are the other, more comical ones, like how my mom decided when we were young to have a communal sock drawer instead of matching six people’s socks each time she did laundry and how now—to my husband’s horror—I am unable to keep track of our family’s socks as an adult.
But with each of these instances, no matter how involuntarily they come, I get to reconsider my life through my mother’s eyes.
Growing up, I never recognized the moments she felt spread too thin, over-touched, or forgotten, although I know now they must have happened. I didn’t see her question her identity or search for purpose on those long days with four kids at home, even though my own experiences make me believe she hid those feelings behind smiles and kisses while we were young.
After becoming a mom, I realized how much she endured while giving us the world, and because of my own kids, I understand the joy and meaning that kept her going.
I am full of gratitude and a new appreciation for my own mom’s journey and the chance to carry on her torch, even if I do it with mismatched socks.
