So it’s almost time to mark another birthday on your timeline. Another year that you’re here to walk me through this parenting game, this real world, this beautifully brutal life. I am so grateful I get to have a mother like you to shepherd me and guide me and listen to me when I just want to complain about how hard my days are, knowing that you had harder ones.
And for your birthday, I wanted to share my gratefulness by simply saying this: Now I understand.
Now I understand why you sat up those nights waiting for me to come home from dates. I understand the love that would make a mom watch the clock, wondering where her precious one was at that moment in time. I understand the love that puts a time limit on a night out, because a mom must know her little ones, no matter how big, are home safe and sound. I know because my oldest has just begun venturing out, to a secret hideout beyond the boundaries of our home, and I know what happens the moment before he leaves, the way a desperate hand can slip that walkie talkie into his backpack with a, “Use it. Let me know when you get there,” even though it’s just 200 feet from our house. I know what happens the moment he leaves, the way a mama heart can fret until he’s back in her presence. I understand the fear that coils up in a mama heart when a child is any amount of distance away.
Now I understand why you refused to let me go see that one serious high school boyfriend anytime I wanted, even though I thought I was in love and I was surely going to marry him and we were going to live happily ever after. You could see through every person who came and went in my life, and I know because I see it with my boys, how I always know which of their friends will break their hearts or help heal it, how there are always some I like more than others, how I feel the urge to protect them from the ones I know will hurt more than they’ll help. You were always looking to my future, and I know because I am always looking to my boys’ future—who these people will shape them to be and how they will change because of those friendships and where I can step in and guide and love in a way that still respects their free will.
Now I understand those long conversations you used to have with Memaw, when I was waiting on a phone call from my latest boyfriend and you were sitting there talking about your kids or your work or nothing at all. I understand that sometimes all it takes is a conversation with a mother to make you feel like you can do anything in the world. I understand that mothers give courage. That they hold a child steady. That they heal and believe and set the whole world on fire. I know, because I get to do it for my boys, every day before I drop them off at school, enfolding them in that embrace that speaks the words for me: I believe in you. I dream big dreams for you. I adore you.
Now I understand why you wanted to be in the seat of every performance, every track meet, every game, every ceremony, no matter how long or boring or ridiculously pointless. I understand that when you love a kid, you just want to be there. You just want to see. You just want to show them how proud you feel, even though they won’t even possibly know until they’re parents, if then. I understand, because I went to those silly school dance parties and the forever-long reading awards and the next-grade-promotion ceremonies, and I sat there fidgeting but beaming and waving and whooping when my boys came to the front of the stage. There’s just nothing like saying, “That’s my kid,” even if your introversion self would die before you say it out loud.
Now I understand those nights you sat reading while we sat watching the latest and greatest horror film so we could scare ourselves into not sleeping—because I can’t watch them anymore now like you couldn’t watch them anymore then. And when my boys sit to watch that weekly movie (not a horror film yet), I sit beside them to read, because it’s the only time a mom who loves to read books can actually read, uninterrupted, for any stretch of time, even if her attention is still divided by the dialogue and action on a screen and she could read more if she shut herself in a bedroom with a “do not disturb” sign. I understand that sitting with them, even when we’re not watching, is still being with them, and I understand that being with them is more important than anything else in the world.
Now I understand those glances I’d catch from you when I wasn’t really paying attention, until I was—those afternoons I was working on pre-Algebra homework or reading the latest Victoria Holt book I’d checked out from the library or writing a new story. I understand that sometimes love makes it difficult not to pay attention, because I sometimes can’t stop staring at my boys coloring a picture or tying a shoe or reading a book silently over in the corner. Sometimes I can’t help but marvel that they are mine for this moment.
Now I understand why you always tried to tell us we would be okay. That we were secure. That there was enough money, even when we were on the last dollar and wouldn’t have another until a week later and there was no food in the refrigerator, only canned food in the pantry. I know, because I’ve lived through a lean season for several months now, and I know that all I want for my boys is that they will not go to bed hungry, and I will do anything in the world to make sure they don’t. I understand why you wouldn’t eat those nights food was short, because a parent will make sure their kids’ bellies are full before they’ll ever take care of their own. I understand what it’s like to parent in that tension of not quite enough, and everyone’s asking for something you don’t have budget to give, and the way it can twist a heart all black and blue. I understand what it’s like to wonder what if—what if one of them needs counseling again? What if someone gets a growth spurt and never wants to stop eating? What if the air conditioner breaks in the middle of summer?
Now I understand why you never let us take the easy way out. I know what hard work does for kids, because I lived through it. I know how it builds resiliency, and I understand why you would want to shelter us from all that ugliness at first, and I understand the courage it took to let us see instead—because you knew who it would shape us to become. I’m not glad that you struggled. But I’m glad we got to see your struggle, because it showed us that you were a real person, that you weren’t perfect, that you didn’t have everything in the world figured out, not even close, and I understand, now, that this is important for kids to know. I understand, because my boys see their own ability to overcome in my mistakes and insecurities and shortcomings.
Now I understand that it wasn’t about being a perfect person so much as it was about being a good human being. Not that you ever made me feel like it was about perfection as a kid. I put that heavy expectation on myself, when all you really wanted was for me to be brave and kind and true to myself. I get it now, because I have boys I drop off at public school, where a world can tell them who they are faster than I can assess the damage. I understand what it’s like to fight for who they are in a place that values perfect behavior and perfect concentration and perfect execution of things like grades and sports and all the extras on the side. I understand that it’s not about behaving so much as it’s about becoming, because that’s all I want for my boys, too—to become strong, kind, true-to-themselves young men who see a world that needs changing and aren’t afraid to do the work.
Now I understand.
Thank you so much for the example you were. Thank you for the hero you still are. I could not have asked for a better mother.
Happy birthday. I’ll love you forever.
