i am not a mother. nor do i anticipate being one for quite some time. to be honest, i have an ivy plant that is dead as a doornail despite my efforts to raise it. i can barely even take care of myself. i don’t know what kind of mother i will be, if i’ll even be a good one. how can we know?
my mother knew. to raise children was always her dream. and she is damn fucking good at it. it’s pretty cliche to say my mother is the best ever, but trust me. she is. we haven’t always been easy on her, and she hasn’t always been easy on us. but she is, and i think i speak for my sisters and dad as well, my best friend, my biggest confidante, my savior, my world.
my mother has always understood me, reading my mind when i can’t even read it myself. sensing from the smallest movement exactly what i am thinking, feeling, wanting, and needing. hearing me and seeing me even when she appears to not be paying attention. kissing my boo-boos, wiping away my tears, waking me up too loudly in the morning, never forgetting a lunch, a note, a kiss. flying across the country when i needed her most.
my mother is my tree. the tree around which i have grown and flourished. she is my rock. she is my world. my mother is my angel on earth. without her, i would be a very lost soul.