Following by example
Pity the private person whose daughter is a writer.
My poor mother, so modest and reserved. And here it is, another Mother’s Day, and she’s probably cringing as she reads these words, wondering which story about her I might’ve chosen to share.
It’s a bit unfair of me. All those years Mom spent believing she was simply raising me before learning her offspring was taking notes, that instead of mere parenting, Mom was stocking my larder with material.
Mom has always been one of the funniest people I’ve known and one of the quickest to laugh. Life seems to amuse her. She can find the funny in most any situation, even at age 88.
I remember noticing, when I was little and we would go to the playground, the other parents would cluster together to talk, but my mom would be shooting down the slide with her arms in the air. She’d swing on the swings and didn’t just push the merry-go-round, but jumped on and rode. It felt flattering that she seemed to prefer playing with us over gabbing with the other adults.
I wanted to be just like her when I was a parent. That never changed.
When my daughter was little and she and I went to the beach, I’d see parents reading books or playing on their phone or watching their children while sitting on beach chairs rather than scooping handfuls of sand or making moats or packing castle walls and then tunneling through them. My mom played in the sand. So did I. Sometimes I’d get so absorbed in the castle Celeste and I were building that I’d not realize how thoroughly covered in sand I’d become, or that I was sitting in an unladylike position, or that people had gathered to watch our construction.
I couldn’t tell who was having more fun — my daughter or me.
Being a parent entitles you to make a fool of yourself in public for years. It gives you the opportunity to pull a sock over your head in the middle of the food court without anyone forcing you into a back-fastening jacket. You get to build forts with fries and turn olives into eyeballs and make mashed potato volcanos wiyh gravy lava. You get to be disgusting and tell fart jokes and make funny noises. It can be the most freeing time in a person’s life, yet so many miss it.
Some people say being a parent is such hard work, but it’s being a grown up that’s hard. Being a parent — that part is fun. It’s rewarding and exhausting and demanding. It can rob you of sleep and turn your hair gray. But being a parent is what makes being a grown up worthwhile.
Sometimes, when life gets overwhelming in the ways mine has been, it can be easy to forget the importance of fun. There are times I let myself be a little too concerned with covering all the bases; let myself be consumed with getting through, instead of making the most of the ride.
Mom taught me better than that.
Even though my girl is now grown, she continues to watch how I handle the hands that I’m dealt. It might seem she’s not paying attention, that what I do and how I do it aren’t of interest to her, but she’s watching.
And someday, if I handle this right, she might follow my lead.
I’m grateful Mom taught me there are more important things than a spotless house and chasing after what money can buy; that children will remember the mom who jumped into the cold swimming pool without first dipping a toe over the moms whose hair and makeup remained perfect poolside.
Most of all, though, I’m glad I was her favorite.
Sorry, Kurt. But it’s time that you knew.
