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With Mother’s Day upon us, I thought it a perfect time to write something about my Mother.

My Mother’s Motherhood was a little different than most.  She had my sister and settled in for a wonderful time in life full of diapers, cute girly clothes, and rocking baby to sleep.

I look at the pictures of my sister and my mom at that time and am always amazed at how graceful and calm she seemed.  They made beautiful photos together and I know my mother’s heart was bursting with joy.

Twelve years later, my parents decided that adoption was the right next step for their family.  How such a wonderful, amazing, tightly joined with each other and God family found crazy 8 year old me, I will never know.  But I am grateful.

I remember my Mom’s hugs being warm and inviting.  Gentle and caring.  The first hugs I had gotten like that in years.  I remember her teaching me to bathe and putting me to bed and listening when I asked questions.  I fondly remember her laugh… gentle and soothing.

But it was not until later, when I had my own children, that I realized her sacrifice in raising me.

She went from being a mother of  a twelve year old daughter who adored her and listened to her and behaved the way she should to the mother of an 8 year old who was determined to be as difficult as she could.  I’d never had rules, expectations, and schedules in my life.  Nor did I have much respect for authority figures and adults in general.

She certainly had her hands full.

And, at least in my memory, handled it with the same grace that I saw in those photos.  She was patient, understanding, and there.  Which to a child raised mainly in foster care, was a priceless gift.

I think about that time for her sometimes.  How the new family structure affected the image of what she had for her own motherhood, and I truly wonder how she did it.  I probably would have run full speed to the hills never to be seen again if I had to deal with some of the stuff I threw at her.

I wonder how many times she hit her knees in prayer asking for help.  How many times she cried in frustration that I was just so hard headed.  Where she was the day that she put her head in her hands and asked why I could not just “get it”.

And I marvel that she never gave up.  As so  many already had in my past.

She did it all with grace.  And respect.  And love.

So on this Mother’s Day, when I am finally in a position to appreciate what it takes to raise a child from infancy, that I bore… I raise my glass to my mother.  Who took a child half way through her childhood, damaged and determined, and turned her into the mother she is today.

God Bless You Mom… and thank you.

*****

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