Mother Dearest

I forget what my mother means to me. Although she drives me bonkers, she is the rock in my life. When I reflect on my relationship with my mom, I remember that:

She’s the one I can count on to think I’m hilarious. She laughs and says, “You’re so funny, Sherry!” Or, she laughs at my brother and me, as we’re doing impersonations or being nuts and she says, “You guys are so weird.” That’s code for “How did I give birth to two such brilliant and comical children?”

She sucks at being a provider of information. I call her, sure that she knows how to get to a certain location or how to find a particular restaurant (she, after all, has been there at least 100 times) and I can count on her to say, “I don’t know, Sherry! I just do it. I have to be there to know.” As soon as I tell Jessica, “My mom would know. Let me call her,” she rolls her eyes because she knows how the conversation will end--in frustration because my mom “doesn’t know!"

She thinks I’m the best teacher, ever. I often overhear her bragging, “Sherry is such a good teacher. She works so hard and she expects so much from her students.” She told me once that I make her proud of her profession.

She has the greatest sense of duty (I don’t even think she knows it). She stayed married to my dad for 20 years (not for the faint of heart) because she felt it was the right thing to do. She puts up with my brother’s shit because she is his mother. She took care of my grandparents when the rest of us were out of patience with care-giving because they are her parents. She perseveres long after everybody else is done.

When I hang up abruptly, leave her house without much explanation, or cry on the phone, she always follows up. She calls a few minutes later to make sure I’m okay. I answer the phone in frustration, wanting to be left alone, but secretly glad that she cares enough to call.

She loves Jesus simply. In a way that frustrates me. In a way that is beautiful. In a way that requires little answers. In a way that I envy.

She is my mom.