No matter how many books on parenting you read before you have children, there’s really not a guidebook on how to be a parent. You spend 9 months preparing, then suddenly you’re at the hospital or home water birthing tub or village hut, holding your newborn, exhausted yet invigorated and in complete awe of the tiny human in front of you, and from that moment on, you start figuring it out.
My mom struggled to have children, so after I was born, it was unclear if having more children would be in the cards for my parents. While my parents were working through the medical interventions necessary to have a second child, I welcomed an imaginary friend named Tommy into our home. Tommy was an adult male who was three feet tall with striped red, white, and blue hair. His head was the shape of a football turned the long way (think Ernie from Sesame Street).
Tommy got plenty of attention at our house. Instead of rolling her eyes and ignoring Tommy, Mom welcomed Tommy into our world, indulging my weirdo childhood sensibilities like it was a completely normal thing to have a short adult male living in our home that nobody else but me could see. Tommy had a place setting at the dinner table. After bath time, Tommy had his own towel. When Tommy was in trouble, which was often since he was quite rebellious, I was there to set him straight.
When I was four, after several years of prayer and some medical miracles, my parents informed me that they were having another child. Instead of jumping up and down and getting excited about having a sibling, I lost my little mind.
“WHAT? You’re trading me in for another kid?”
My dad was a car guy, and he often traded in cars for the newer models, so in my world, Mom and Dad having another kid meant they were trading me in for a newer version. Lucky for everyone, once my sister Emily was born, Tommy packed his little briefcase and high-tailed it out of there, never to return.
From there, Mom proceeded to completely nail the motherhood gig. I often think because she had to work so hard to have kids, Mom put that much work into being a great mother. Before I started Kindergarten, she created a system to teach me how to read using syrupy canned fruit salad and toothpicks - - for each simple word, I’d use a toothpick to grab a piece of pineapple or pear. For the harder words, the reward was a cherry. By the time I hit Kindergarten, I was reading like crazy.
Mom is a gifted musician and pianist, so our house was a constant lesson in music education, filled with the sounds of Gershwin, Scott Joplin, Bach, and Chopin on the piano. A lifelong Methodist, Mom gave us a foundation of faith that was based on caring for others in need, and welcoming others with different views. She taught us to see the beauty in different religions, cultures, and belief systems. She worked hard so that my sister and I could have gap years in Europe before gap years existed, teaching us the importance of travel to broaden our world views. She taught us to express gratitude, to turn off the television and be in the moment, to create, to be inquisitive, and to do all of it with a sense of humor.
Through the years, whenever I have had to deliver difficult news to Mom, every time, without fail, she chooses the path of non-judgment. She simply opens her heart and her arms, and together, we work through it. I’ve brought plenty of challenges to the table, from Tommy to a truly terrible boyfriend to some really bad life decisions, and every time, Mom has handled things with grace. Her greatest gift to her children is her ability to accept them for exactly who they are, and for that, I am truly grateful.
Today, we’ll see post after post about people proclaiming they have the best mother in the world. And we’re all correct in our proclamations. Happy Mother’s Day to all of the mothers out there, especially to this lady, the best one of all.
October, 1977. (Not pictured, Tommy.)