I may be a mom but that doesn’t mean I stopped needing mine.
I’ll never forget the moment my mom told me she’d be moving out of state. It was 9 years ago at dinner at our local Macaroni Grill. I burst into cinematic tears and stormed out of the restaurant, sobbing on the bench outside while hungry patrons wondered if the rosemary loaf had somehow disappointed me. As if.
My mom and I share a special history. After my parents’ divorce I lived with my mom where it was always the two of us. She and me, me and she. I’ve always felt most at home and happy around her; it’s just always been that way.
While my mom comes to visit regularly and we talk every few days, I still can’t help by miss the convenience and comfort of having her by my side. Somehow whenever she’s around it feels like nothing can go wrong.
She’s the one I turn to in times of personal crisis, incredible joy, and weird mail that I don’t understand. I call her about everything from how to cook a baked potato (350° 60 min.) to where to find deep pocket bed sheets for my pillow top mattress. My mom is my pocket army, my oldest friend, and the woman I’ve looked to for strength, support, and answers every day of my life.
She never tires of me. She’s never too busy to talk.
I know I’m blessed in a million ways for having my mom on this earth; a lot of people aren’t so lucky. Every once in a while when we’re together the uninvited thought of one day living without her creeps in. I get scared, beat the crap out of the thought and sweep it back into the corner of my mind where all the bad stuff lives. A life without my mom? Just no.
I may not thank her enough but she knows the contents of my heart. She’s my mom; she knows.
Sometimes I wonder what it must be like in her position. How strange and wonderful to be the mother of a grown child with children of her own. To watch her parent well or not so well, to watch her fail and learn, to know how much she still needs you.
As mothers we develop dreams for our children based on our own unfulfilled dreams and the glory of whatever we’ve managed to do right. Lucky parents get to see those dreams come true. Perhaps the luckiest parents learn the dreams they envisioned for their kids were small compared to the dreams their children envisioned for themselves.
I don’t doubt my mom is proud of me even in my most anxiety-ridden moments, but what I do hope is that she sees a part of herself in me.
If I could become a fraction of the woman I’ve been so blessed to be able to call mom, I’d know I did at least something right.
Do you still need your mom as an adult?
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