My lovely mom, on her wedding day.
It was my great privilege and
luxury to grow up in a home where my mom was fiercely loyal to her children.
Unapologetically so. There were seven of us kids, and she consistently had our
backs, despite any clear and apparent evidence that contradicted whatever story
we had manufactured to defend ourselves. Even if I was clearly in the wrong,
she sided with me.
“You ate the entire box of Uncle Amos' chocolate-chip-pecan cookies? You poor thing, you must have been starving!”
“Your seminary teacher is
evidently out of her early-morning-lovin’ mind! You shouldn’t be kicked out of class for talking – SHE should be kicked out of class for
talking!”
“Those nuns obviously didn’t
look both ways before crossing the street! Practically pleading with you to run
them down! And look what that large one did to the front of your car!”
Oh, sure, there were times
when I knew she was disappointed in me. But it was usually because I had
followed the sage wisdom and clever strategies of neighborhood friends – which
generally ended in physical injury, property damage, and/or jumping off a roof
into a large pile of manure. (And I assure you, nobody wishes that last one was a
hypothetical situation more than I.) But at the end of the day, she was more upset with
them than with me. She still assumed the best about me.
It’s actually a miracle that
I didn’t end up a complete brat.
At least…I don’t think I’m a
brat.
I’m not a brat – right, Mom?
Happy Mother’s Day on Sunday! I love you!
