It’s nice to say “Mommy.” Even though I’ve graduated high school, even college, and I really shouldn’t be calling you that anymore. Because I am an adult, and therefore don’t need a “mommy” anymore.
Cue hysterical laughter.
Mommy, I will always need you. Even when I become a mommy myself, I will always need you. I’ll always need your wisdom, whether on big decisions, like which jobs to apply for, or which apartments to rent; or on little decisions, like wearing the green dress or the blue, or how long until ketchup expires.
And when somebody at work is discouraging and condescending and rude, I’ll remember what you taught me: the way people treat you is a reflection of who they are; not who you are.
And when I walk on cobblestones, I’ll be careful not to step on the cracks, but to jump from octagon to octagon.
And when the world has knocked me down one two many times, I’ll call you to hear your voice to tell me to get back up again.
I’ll remember to clean up while the meal is cooking. I’ll remember to label my Christmas storage boxes meticulously, so that it can be packed up quickly and efficiently. I’ll always remember to check Sigalert before a big drive. I’ll never leave the house without a jacket, water, and snacks. I’ll pull over to make a call or change the music. I’ll always look waiters and waitresses in the eye and leave them a nice tip. I’ll always listen to audiobooks.
Mommy, you have been all things to me: doctor, cheerleader, teacher, nurse, nanny, coach, mentor, provider, confidante, encourager, truth-teller, carpool-buddy, and friend.
But there is no one I’d rather have as my mom. There’s no one I’d rather walk alongside me for the tough conversations and the inside jokes and the road trips and the grocery store runs.
I am your biggest fan, just as you have always been mine.
So, don’t fret. Just because I no longer wear diapers, braces, or carry a learner’s permit, I will always need you.
You have prepared me beautifully for the roughness and the surprises of this world. But not so well that I will not call you at 3 AM after a nightmare, or after a fender bender, or after a promotion, or a hilarious incident in the elevator.
So, today, I’d like to celebrate you. Which sounds a little degrading. For all you have done, and for all you are to me, why is one day supposed to be satisfactory? I’m sorry about that, Mommy. But, please, feel celebrated. Know how you’ve made a difference. Know how you’ve formed me, shaped me, challenged me, encouraged me, and loved me.
You will always be mine.
I will always be yours.
I will always need you.
Happy Mother’s Day!
PS, Mom, can you please proof this post for me? :)