I always thought my mom was a bit of a whirlwind – a lovable disaster, really. She had a habit of being late, juggling a million things at once, and constantly reminding me about all the things I needed to do. Picture a cabinet stuffed with thank-you notes that never got sent, and craft projects that were just shy of completion. That’s my mom. The phrase “a day late and a dollar short”? Yeah, that was practically coined for her. I can’t count the number of times I was dropped off late or even forgot to be picked up at all. Time seemed to bend around her, and I was pretty sure the road paved with good intentions led straight to her driveway.
This past St. Patrick’s Day, she was over the moon when the package she sent for my kids actually arrived on March 17th. Sure, it contained Valentine’s Day cards, but who needs to sweat the small stuff? A month late is nothing compared to the projects from my childhood. I still remember when I was two, and she started making me a stuffed Easter basket. As expected, she “fell behind,” and it wasn’t finished in time for that Easter or the next. I’d find scraps of fabric stuffed in her sewing basket while looking for a missing button. I’d roll my eyes and ask if I should toss them, but she always insisted she’d finish it by next year. Spoiler alert: it never made it to any egg hunt.
It wasn’t that she lacked motivation; she just had too many things cooking at once – none of which anyone would want to eat. We’re talking about a woman who could ruin a roast from a distance. My lunches in elementary school? Let’s just say that while other kids were trading snacks, mine were so tragic that I got pity food instead. I was probably the only college student who couldn’t wait for fall break to enjoy a proper meal at a restaurant.
Lately, my mom has taken to calling me with local weather updates, just in case I haven’t peeked outside, or to share some herbal remedy she heard about on Dr. Oz. I prefer these chats to the ones where she offers parenting advice that contradicts what I’m doing or what she would have done.
For a long time, I thought my mom was just a little slow or perpetually tired. I figured it was a character flaw, and that every other kid had a mom who arrived on time and whisked them away for gourmet dinners, only to spend the evening scrapbooking their vacations.
Then I had my own child.
I remember those sleepless nights, rocking my baby back to sleep while fighting off exhaustion, and suddenly it hit me: someone did this for me. Yes, someone was there for every cry, every feeding, and every moment of comfort. That someone was my mom, who managed to do the same for my siblings, knowing she’d have to get up a few hours later to get the older kids ready for school. All those times I caught her napping in the afternoon? I thought she was lazy.
The truth is, you can’t fully grasp the challenges of motherhood until you’re in it. There’s that moment when you find yourself alone with a tiny human, desperate for a manual, and you realize your own mom, who always seemed to have the answers (even if you didn’t always agree), was just winging it like the rest of us. With every misstep and small victory as a parent, I’ve come to understand her so much better.
Motherhood is this wild paradox, a balancing act of the mind and heart that kids often misinterpret. How can someone forget to wash your soccer uniform but never forget to call you on your birthday? How can a mom whose cooking you once complained about drive all the way to school just to deliver a forgotten lunchbox? How could she cry on your first day of kindergarten yet let you move across the country after college to pursue your dreams?
What didn’t make sense when I was younger is crystal clear now. My baby book wasn’t empty because she was scatterbrained; it was empty because she was busy. Busy helping me learn to walk, teaching me to talk, reading to me, and most importantly, loving me. She didn’t cook fancy meals because kids mostly want chicken nuggets and mac and cheese, and by dinner, parents are usually too frazzled to care.
She was late picking me up because my little brother threw a fit over his crooked sock, or the baby had a diaper explosion at the worst possible moment. She wasn’t the class mom because she had younger kids at home and was working part-time to help us afford trips to Disney World. It wasn’t disorganization; it was chaos, and she was trying to juggle everything with kids constantly calling her name.
Now, she calls about the weather because she misses that lively chaos, the tea parties, and T-ball games. No one runs off the bus and leaps into her arms anymore, and no one asks her to sing them to sleep. She sacrificed so much of her life to ensure her kids felt loved, safe, and happy, and now they can go days without even returning her calls.
I get it now, all the little things she did to keep our family afloat, like hand-sewing my Easter basket. One Easter, when I was 22, I opened a package to find she had finally finished it. I can picture her up late, following a 20-year-old pattern, hands cramping as she stuffed it, rushing to the post office at the last minute to ensure it arrived in time. At that moment, I finally understood why she’d go through the trouble after all these years – because my kids would need me less as they grew up, and she wanted me to never forget that she would always cherish me.
Now, each year when I unpack that basket, it symbolizes the little girl I will always be in her eyes, a testament to a mother’s unwavering love. It’s the most precious gift I’ve ever received.
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Summary
The author reflects on her childhood perceptions of her mother as disorganized and chaotic, only to realize, after becoming a mom herself, the immense effort and love that went into her parenting. Through her experiences, she gains a deeper understanding of motherhood, recognizing the sacrifices and devotion behind her mother’s seemingly erratic behavior.