During my younger years, I rejected the thought of idolizing my mother. Not only did I reject it, but I scoffed at it, threw it in the dirt, and let a stampede of elephants run over the concept. Instead, I would write reports on how great it would be to be the next Britney Spears, showing them to my mom, hearing echoes of praise for my wonderful fifth grade-desires. Not grasping the fact that the real desirable woman was right there, tangibly in front of me.
Being my mom included a brutal and hearty amount of rejection. For her twenty years of motherhood, she has had to deal with my angsty attitude that would reject her food, love, and comfort. Her only response to this angst has been to adjust her approach towards me and to continue pursuing me and cultivating a healthy environment in which I could do more yelling at her. What a Godly woman.
Motherhood is constant rejection. It is nothing like the rejection from the cute boy in class, but rejection from your own flesh and blood; rejection from the thing that you painfully squeeze out of your own body and love more than anything. I can hardly imagine the hurt I have put my mom through and the strength she has had through the years to take all the rejection (Dear future kids, I cannot handle this, I expect to wear a tiara and for you to bow down to me, please and thank you).
I have run from my mom’s wisdom and into boys’ arms, turned away from my mom’s guidance and walked into situations that did nothing for me, and sung words of praise about so many women around me, only to sing them into the ears of the only woman that really matters. It is insane that a human being could face something so gritty and heartbreaking like rejection and handle it with such grace and ease.
I had this brutal awakening when I saw my baby sister accidentally punch my mom in the face, causing her to have a bloody nose. In the most reserved manner, my mom got up, went to the bathroom, washed off her face, and returned to my crying sister to say that everything was alright.
I realized that moms literally and figuratively take every single punch we give them. And, as if that isn’t enough, they take all of the literal and figurative punches that get thrown at us as well.
Growing up, I was one hundred percent the troublemaker in every situation I got myself into. As a result, my mom had to speak with a lot of coaches, teachers, and parents. Not only did my mom speak with them willingly, but she was always, always defending me. Even when I wasn’t deserving one, my mom was the equivalent of an entire professional defensive line that was made just for me. Tackling the toughest people my young mind could ever imagine tackling, and doing so with the most divine drive and always keeping her dignity intact while doing so.
If I could have it my way, I would take zero responsibility for my actions, let alone become somebody else’s advocate no matter the situation, but that is what my mom has done every day for my whole life.
As I sit and listen to my sister talk about how Chloe is dating Adam P. but also snapchats Adam R., I can’t help but thinking “wow, I honestly would rather listen to anything other than this.” Then suddenly, I realize I would give my mom a play-by-play of every single thing that happened at school each day, down to the shorts that Andrew Bladt was wearing during science class. I kid you not, guys, the woman who is my mother had to listen to the word “like” about a thousand times in just one sitting, in addition to hearing every single fight I ever had with Hailey Hebert, only to be told that I was going go over to her house that coming weekend. The woman is a saint for not turning up the radio every time I got in the car.
To this day, I can call her forty-two times a day just to tell her that I fell down the stairs again, knowing that she doesn’t care, but she will always, always answer; she will always, always say “I love you” a whole bunch of times and she will always, always tell me she’s proud of me, even when there isn’t anything big to be proud of.
What a great and abundant love that I am blessed with. My mother’s “I love you” is as therapeutic as a first snow. Every word of the phrase never falls short of being magical, light, and genuine.
What a gracious and Godly thing it is to do, to be motherly. Consuming thoughts of their annoying offspring so beautifully, never stopping to act selfishly, even for a moment; moms are truly treasures.
Not everybody has experienced this version of a mom, however, all versions of moms need to be honored more. They step up to the infamous and impossible plate. They change their lives, bodies, and hearts to be strong and empowering figures that provide for ungrateful little brats like me. These insane women who do many things everyday that are exhausting, but supposedly “normal” without getting the recognition that they deserve. They deserve their own Oscars. They deserve retreats, pies, and more love than we as children can ever give them.
My mom once told me that growing up, the only thing she wanted to do was to be a mom. She prayed so hard for my sister and me, and I know that God saw the uncanny fire in her and knew that her heart would be wasted if it wasn’t used to love us.
From day one, all of her time has been spent worrying, providing, and caring for my family more than one can possibly imagine. Through the melodies of her bedtime songs and screaming matches, she has built the very foundation that I walk on today.
My mother has lifted me up while keeping me grounded, fed my mind with the wildest dreams, and held my hand the whole time. For that, I am filled with gratitude and pride that every day, I get to call her my mom. Because of her, I have lived such a full life. One where I know I will always make good choices and always stay positive.
She is a woman that deserves a thousand yellow daisies, every day for the rest of her days.
She is a woman who should never be put in the corner. Instead, on a pedestal, with Patrick Swayze singing to her and Shemar Moore dancing with her.
She is a woman who is single, so hit her up. ;)
She is my best pal.
Moreover, she is the woman who is too tall to stand by. One whom I strive to be just like.
One who is way cooler than Britney Spears.
Thank you, mom.
Sorry I died your hair purple.
