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Dear Mom: It Was Every Time...

May 14, 2017

Photo by Jordan Randall featuring Aubin Rainer for Mad Sounds Magazine Issue 23 

 

It was every time I was on an unstoppable rampage of complaining and annoyance when she’d turn to me and put me in my place, teaching me to consider the other side of things. She’d shut down my pity parties, and push my buttons in ways I hadn’t yet realized needed to be pushed. Even though this would sometimes trigger me more, I knew in the back of my mind that I needed it. Now, because of her, my shiny robes are humble rags, and my nose is turned to those on the ground rather than up in the air.

 

It was every tearful morning when she’d hold me and stroke my arms, telling me it was okay to make mistakes and that nobody is perfect. The reassurance is something we’re told often, but I forget it enough that I’m sent into doubtful spirals. But when it comes from her, I can trust that it’s true because she knows the good and bad about me, and that doesn’t alter her faith in me.

 

It was every time I was too much of a teenager, even now after high school. When my trashy attitude and temper would make cameos far too regularly. When evenings became late nights and eventually early mornings. When she would stick by my side through the bright, inviting patches, and the dark and haunting hardships. When she never loved me less because of it.

 

It was every time she'd blare classic rock on the radio in the car. I'd cover my ears because it was so loud, but I loved every minute of it on the inside. I would be embarrassed by the fact that people could probably hear the music clearly from the streets, but today I find myself turning the volume all the way up without hesitation, not worried by the looks I get from strangers. It's classic rock, after all.

 

It was every time she’d turn to me in frustration at the sight of litter on the ground, and say, “How careless can people be?” It was her disturbance that made me question how I could help the environment, and how I could teach others about it, too. It started as a tiny root which grew into a sturdy stem of passion and concern for the earth.

 

It was every long-distance phone call when I could vent about roommates, gush about boys, cry about missing home, and ask questions only real adults knew the answers to. It was every time I wanted to drop out of school and move back home when she pushed me harder and further to the point where I could feel the support and love seeping through my walls, even from a thousand miles away.

 

It was every single one of these times that proved to me how strong my mother is. It was every time she had to lift me up when I had fallen, dried my tears after a long day, and tolerated my unkind words, regardless of how uncalled for they were. It was today while writing this that I realized I don’t credit my mother enough for the hard work she has put in to help me grow into the person I have become and strive to be. While I sit at the bottom of a hole, people throw to me flashlights, shovels, and rope, but she is the one who extends a ladder to pull me up, and I am grateful.

 

Happy Mother's Day!

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