May. The month to honor mothers. And I honor mine more than words can say, and this is why:

My mom always made me feel that I was the most important person in the world. But my brother thought he was, and my sister thought she was. And this is the mark of a loving (and smart) mother. Clean clothes, warm lunches, backyard tents and plenty of school supplies (because I loved plenty of school supplies) were always paramount. Together we watched I Love Lucy, licked baking bowls, and colored with fat crayons. I sat between her knees and practiced my spelling words while she brushed my hair and curled small chunks into pin curls with a criss-cross of bobby pins.

Night after night she tucked me in, and genuinely seemed happy to see me each morning. She had rules and expected them to be followed, but never raised her voice (until I was a teenager, and then, well, she was human), treated me with respect and expected to be treated with respect. She knew it was a two-way street. We knew it, too.

Nothing has changed. All grown up now, and she is still that same mother. She moves a little slower, she’s a little grayer, and she doesn’t pincurl my hair with a criss-cross of bobby pins. But here’s the catch: she would if I asked her.

So here’s to mothers, wise and comforting.
And let’s not forget grandmothers. The best thing about
A grandmother is that she’s just more of your mother.
Or your mother is more of her. And mostly, that’s a miracle
Of a thing.
And I whisper a special Mother’s Day prayer to my daughter, who
Celebrates her first May as a mommy. She is more of my mother,
Too. My granddaughter is one lucky girl.

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