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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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