It is Mother’s Day. I remember the following conversation from my own childhood, the same one I had with my daughter last night.

Mom: Tomorrow is Mother's Day!
Child: How come there isn't a Kid's Day?
Mom: Because every day is Kid's Day.

I have, finally, become my mother.

She had warned me it would happen, smiling. I denied it. Not me. I wouldn't care about the bed being made every day when I would just be crawling into it again every night. I wouldn't insist on homework being done before my child was allowed to turn on the television. I wouldn't require all the veggies be eaten before dessert was allowed.

I have, finally, become my mother.

When I became my mother, I understood that she must have had a life before she was My Mother. She must have had a life as A Person. This interests me, now. What did she look like when she was seven? Who were her best friends? Which boy gave her the first kiss? What made her laugh, listen, cry? And how will I answer those questions when, someday, my daughters become me?

It reminds me to record the things that matter most. It reminds me that what matters most are the little things – the things we take for granted. When I remember my childhood I have an overall sense that it was good. And it is filled with images of my mother.

My mother. Who read me a story every night, before bed. Who made a full meal with protein and vegetables and salad and dessert each evening, even when she was working a forty-hour week. Who was brave enough to yell at the bully we all feared, the one that stole my shoes as I walked home from third grade. Who faced my teacher and told her I could hold my pencil the way I wanted as long as my cursive was still neat. Who was, in the end, on my side even when I'd done something stupid.

My mother was strong. She was from a different generation, one that may have coddled me less than I do my own children but one that had values that I wish I saw more of today. My mother Did Not Take Crap From Anyone. My mother had a green dress that I adored and she believed in cooking the spaghetti sauce all day, for hours and hours. My mother cleaned her own house and watched Sixty Minutes every Sunday and bought me the yellow cashmere sweater I coveted, even when it was a bit beyond our means.

My mother, who had a high school education, supported me through college by working as a secretary. My mother told me that I could grow up to do whatever I wanted if I worked hard enough, and I started Baby Einstein. My mother told me I could survive breast cancer, and I did.

But it wasn't until I had my own children that I really understood how much my mother loved me. It was something I'd taken for granted. It wasn't until I experienced that most remarkable and quite ordinary emotion that I don't have to explain to you, if you are a mother yourself. And that I can't explain to you if you are not.

In the end, I have become my mother. I am proud to say it. And it is what we all ought to strive for – to be the kind of mothers that our own children are proud to grow up to be.

Fondly,
Julie