My Mother

In this world there are the kinds of mothers who sew on their daughter’s brownie badges, and there are the kinds who do not. Needless to say my mother belongs to the latter group who believes it is perfectly acceptable to safety pin a badge onto a sash. And never mind that it’s already been partially chewed up by the dog.

Not long ago I was rummaging through old photographs and came across a picture of my ballet class. In the photograph a line of about ten five year olds are standing in perfect first position with perfect ballet buns and perfect pink tutus. That is, until the image is shattered by a little girl at the end standing with her hip jutted out to showcase her flowing skirt and her hair flying in a million directions except where it is secured by a gaudy yellow headband. Looking at this image it all became clear. Here it was; solid proof of my dysfunctional existence. Years of constant yearning to belong suddenly made sense. Years of feeling like there was something wrong with me explained. It was my mother’s fault. All because she wasn’t the kind of mother who makes sure their daughter is dressed in regulation pink. I immediately brought this picture to her and shouted something along the lines of “Look at what you did to me” She studied the picture and said “What? You look cute, but that little girl on the end, what a mess.”

At this, I couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe I didn’t always fit in, but thanks to my mother, at least I have always been unique.

My mother is not the kind of mother who creates the perfect French braid or volunteers for the PTA. She is the kind of mother who accidently gives her daughter a mushroom cut the day before she has to play a fairy for her 3rd grade play. She is the kind of mother that tells off her daughter’s entire 2nd grade class when volunteering for story time. And in spite of this, and because of all this, she is the kind of mother who teaches her daughters lessons about authenticity and fearlessness.

My mother is the kind of mom who does laughter yoga in the car on the way to school, the kind that defends her daughter’s honour even when pitted against the meanest of math teachers. She is of the sort that believes in black magic and feeds her daughters escargot and caviar in spite of their desire for Kraft dinner. She is the kind of mother who teaches her children about the beauty in all things and all people. She is the kind who celebrates tantrums and any form of self expression. The kind who nurtures dreams and forgives shortcomings. She is the kind of mother that can find a rainbow in any storm. The kind who makes giant mistakes and then proclaims that it’s all in the name of having something to work with in therapy.

My mother is passionate, adventurous, and stubborn as hell. She is strong willed and independent and smarter than any textbook. She is also beautiful and gentle, and the most compassionate woman I know. She is the kind of woman who not only sees the light in every spirit, but has the patience to help it shine through.

When I was around nine years old I wrote a letter in my diary to remind my future self of how to be a good mother in case I were to forget. I think the letter was in retaliation towards my own mother because “Always feed your children macaroni and cheese when they want it” was underlined twice. With apologies to my possible offspring, time has caused me to side with my mother on this issue. And on other things to. I am no longer envious of the girls with mothers who sew on brownie badges, I am thankful instead for the mother who has taught me more about life and living than any merit badge ever could.

They say that every daughter eventually becomes her mother. My future children can only hope to be so blessed.