Sometimes I find that it’s hard to put what I feel into words. This becomes especially true when my feelings are ones I have never described before. Not even to myself. So bear with me if this isn’t quite right, I will try my best.
They’ve always said I’m my father’s daughter. I am quiet and smart and my timing is impeccable. They say the way I used to peak over my glasses looks the same way he did. That my innate desire to stack aluminum cans instead of throwing them away is uncanny. That he’s the reason why I’m good at programming. Or why I find such security in stability. Left brain logical computer girl. Even “your dad used to DM too”. And that my ears stick out just like his would’ve if they hadn’t been pinned back. And on and on it goes.
I wish I had more memories of my dad. I wish he had met my first boyfriend or been at my sweet 16 or watched me graduate high school (even if it was 2020 virtually). I wish we could’ve fought about something stupid, like me using snapchat when I was 16. I wish that he could be there to walk me down the aisle one day or play with my future kids. I wish he could give me advice or sit down on the couch in my Baltimore apartment that he bought in 2002. Or give me one more hug. I could spend an eternity yearning and nothing will change. Sometimes this makes me upset, sometimes angry, and sometimes indifferent. No matter what or when I feel, I understand that nothing will change.
I say this all to say that my dad gets a lot of credit. I hear he was a great man, and I believe it. I remember being 6 years old and Donuts for Dads was coming up at Verona Elementary school. I asked him if he could come to school with me that morning. He said that he was really sorry, but he had work. I remember believing him and forgiving him. And I remember being disappointed anyway. The morning of Donuts for Dads, I sat with 2 or 3 friends in the cafeteria, in the section with kids whose parents couldn’t make it. Suddenly, my friend who sat in front of me peaked past my shoulder and squinted. “Is that your dad?”But my mom doesn’t get nearly enough credit. Out of every single person in the whole world, my mom might’ve been the underdog when it comes to managing a bunch of children on her own. She has said it more times than I can count, she can barely take care of herself. But she did everything. She drove me to school every day that I needed it (including the entirety of middle school and back), she sat me down and taught me almost every important lesson I’ve ever learned. She made sure I ate 3 meals a day, and sometimes dessert. If she doesn’t answer the phone, she’ll always call me back. She fought with me. She listened to all of my pointless adolescent drama and never once complained. She helped me write emails and messages. In the past week, she has probably helped me write 10 or more messages, I’m not even kidding. She has helped me with every single move and every single break up, even if she doesn’t know. She watched my stupid virtual high school graduation, even when I didn’t. Not even to mention the elementary and middle school graduations. Every time I’m sick, she’s my first text (maybe after google). She has met all my friends and boyfriends and best friends. And every time I leave home, she’ll give me another hug.
In January, 2011, my mom wrote a long facebook post (blog post?) called “Mark's Magical Box and the Siren Song of my Mother”. January of 2024 she reposted it, saying that she needs to declutter again. While this post reminded her that she needed to clean, it reminded me of a part of my mom that I often forget about. I, too, have not been able to donate the XXLT jackets that still hang in my closet. And I, too, have blank flash drives that I found in my dad’s coat pockets. And a little plastic care bear that belonged to Annastine. And a candle with some hidden meaning from 2003 that I can’t bring myself to burn. My mom really is human. Unlike some parents, my mom has never claimed or tried to hide the fact that she is one of us (human, I mean.) But sometimes I forget that, in being human, she may not know things about herself that I know about her.
In her original post she wrote: “I may never be the person who has the exact thing that is needed at precisely the time it is needed. I may end up having nothing of value to anyone. However, I am convinced that along the way, I will find the freedom my soul desires. I am convinced that I will find love without need attached to it, and that somewhere along the way, I will become the treasure with significance.”
Sometimes it’s hard for me to say words out loud, so in true mom honoring fashion, I will make a facebook post (blog post?) about it instead.
Mom. I don’t know if you know this already, but you have absolutely done it. You are the treasure with significance. And you always have exactly what I need. A few hours on the phone, honest advice, a hug, letting me hold your hand or come home any time I need it. You always have what I need, even when I don’t know what I need. If your house burned down tomorrow, you’d still have it all. Somehow, you know how to fix every problem. And on the rare occasions you don’t, you know how to find the guy who can fix the problem. I know you can’t do everything and I know you’re not perfect. Yet somehow, you have everything I need. I know for a fact that you don’t get enough credit, which is the only reason I’m publicly sharing this for everyone else to see. You deserve the galaxy and more.
I love you! Happy mother’s day <3