I grew up always wanting to do the dirty, heavy lifting and sweaty work with dad. Following him around thinking, “I’m gonna be just like him when I’m older.” Always trying to prove myself strong enough to do what he could do.
I ran to dad first knowing he would say "yes." In the off chance he didn’t, I knew how to persuade him with my big blue eyes and pleading look. Striving to make him proud, always wanting his approval. He was there for me through the hard work, jobs, financial decisions, fixing the car and all of those “dad” things.
Mom didn’t understand like he did (a.k.a didn’t always give me what I wanted). Dad would do that once in a while, but I respected that. He was easier to talk to. He knew all the answers, or so I thought.
Little did I know, while dad was helping to prepare me for life physically, my mom was doing just as much emotionally. She would be there after school to talk about girl problems, friends I was upset with, feeling stressed out about grades or even deciding if a boy was worth my time. She was there to help get me through every single meltdown. Even for the tears falling, nose running, and horrible choking sounds coming from my throat because I just couldn’t do it anymore. She was there to hold me, to tell me it’s the crazy hormones and that I was just letting it get to me. She was there, making me feel relaxed until I would burst out laughing at myself.
She not only would let me cry, but cry with me. She hurt because I did. Telling me her stories of how she got through it, reassuring me that everyone feels this way at times.
She would be there when I was unsure about an outfit, because dads do not know how to respond to the “does this look OK?” question. And if they do respond, it’s not always safe to take their advice.
Dad was there to teach me how to save my money, how to pump my gas, how to drive, etc. All important things to know, I will always go to him for these things. However, mom was there for everything else. All the emotional moments. She was there to listen to my countless boy problems. There to tell me that the only person who loves me more than her is God. Showing me it’s OK to cry, it’s OK to have a pathetic meltdown; as long as at the end of it you’re crying tears of laughter because you realize you’re actually OK, and you will, wait for it… survive. GASP.
Mom is there to be a constant prayer warrior, teaching me that I can always come to her and to just keep praying about it. She cried with me when I left to be four hours away for school. She was understanding how I felt, while dad and the boys goofed around making jokes.
At one point, I thought I was definitely a daddy’s girl but looking back, I see that behind the scenes of all of that was my mom preparing me just as much as dad was for the harsh and frightening real world. She was loving me just as much, just showing it differently. I may still call myself a daddy’s girl, but I realized, even when I’m tempted to be stubborn, that I love and respect my mother just as much.
Thanks Mom.
