Why/How I Love my Mom...

Someone asked me today why I love my mom, and how I know I love her. It is a difficult question to answer, and I got frustrated with the questions before I was able to give my answer. Here it is:

I love my mom because she’s my mom. That’s the default, I have to love her, but that’s not the only reason I do. She sacrificed many things for me and gave me one of the best childhoods one could hope for. She was able to make anything fun, and did. She played zoo songs on the way to the zoo, “shook the van” on the interstate because it made us laugh like crazy (this is done by jerking the wheel back and forth in short bursts, something I am way too chicken to do), made school bus cakes after the first day of school, threw awesome home birthday parties, etc. She also sang this annoying song the night before the first day of school after holidays; the only lyrics were “school tomorrow,” but it was certainly recognizeable (she continued this practice until I graduated from college). She encouraged creativity, love of life, playing outside. She taught us respect, values, and discipline. I am proud of who I’ve become, and I know I owe much of that to her. There were times when we did not get along, times when I thought she was being unreasonable and bitchy. In fact, I remember writing in the only diary I ever had (besides this tumblr) that my mom was a BITCH (in all caps, on pink Hello Kitty paper). Quick story, about perhaps one of the most memorable and worst years of my life: 7th grade. A girl who I thought was my friend, started a rumor that I was a lesbian (in those days, “gay”). Every single female in my grade teamed up and “believed” her. It was absolutely awful. It got so bad they would count the seconds I looked in any girl’s direction/made eye contact, etc. I spent the whole year with only guys as my friends. 7th grade (along with having all brothers) is probably why I prefer male friends still. Anyway, I was a girl scout, and on Thursdays, we had meetings and were supposed to wear our uniform (it was Catholic school so everyone had on some type of uniform). Since I was at the “junior” level of girl scouts, our uniforms were green. It just so happened that at ACMS, Thursday was gay day, and if you wore green (the made up gay color) on Thursday, you were gay. Wednesday night, I broke down. I remember sitting in the garage, in my mom’s car, talking to her about my situation. I was terrified to wear the uniform, because I knew it would only make things worse. I remember the look on my mom’s face as I cried to her, as I begged her to let me wear my school uniform, to skip school. She was heartbroken for me. She wanted to take my place. She wanted to go to school and kill those girls, but she couldn’t. All she could do was give me advice. She told me to wear my uniform as if it was the coolest thing I owned (it certainly wasn’t) and to ignore them, not to give them the time of day (she also told me to ask some of them out on dates). She was always strong and independent. She had her own ideas and opinions, and she stuck to them (sometimes to my embarrasment, like when she chose to wear a t-shirt picturing a guy with his head up his ass, captioned, “I’m just trying to see things from your point of view” to school board meetings, or when she used to dance down the aisles of the grocery store [something I do now]). She loves me unconditionally, she accepts me, whether or not she agrees with me, and she is my mom. I love her because she’s hilarious, talented, creative and fun. She still embarrasses me all the time, but now it’s kind of her thing, and I find it endearing (in most cases). I hope to be able to be all of these things to my children, and to be the kind of mom that she was and is. I miss my mom when she’s not around, or when I haven’t talked to her in a while. I want her opinion on my life, decisions, and problems, and I know I can tell her absolutely anything and she won’t stop loving me. I love her because she loves me. I don’t think I can separate the two.

I don’t know if any of this explains parental love, but it’s the best I can do.