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When a Text Isn’t Enough: Just Call Your Mom
I strolled into the salon, ready for a fresh haircut, and was greeted by a petite woman named Layla. She informed me that my previous stylist had moved away, and she’d be taking over Michelle’s clients.
I instantly warmed to Layla. There was a quiet elegance about her. She inquired about my profession, and I shared that I was a mom who loved to write. When I mentioned my blog, “Mom Babble,” her interest was evident.
“Is it a blog about motherhood?”
“Yes, that’s how people describe it.”
With a smile, she said, “I want to share about my mother.”
And she did. Layla spoke of a woman whose laughter could stop traffic in the grocery store, who curled up her hand when she slept, and who moved with the grace of a ballerina. She was a keeper of secrets and exuded the aroma of comfort food. Her mother never judged and was filled with warmth and kindness. “My mother is my best friend,” Layla added.
Curious, I asked if she’d be seeing her mom for Thanksgiving. She paused and put the scissors down.
“My mother passed away 17 years ago. It feels like just yesterday.”
I could see the sadness in her brown eyes. Layla shook her head, as if to dispel a thought, then resumed cutting my hair in silence. After a moment, she took a deep breath. “I no longer celebrate this holiday. It reminds me that my childhood has vanished, along with my mother.”
Suddenly, I understood her pain. I had just returned from a lovely weekend with my best friend, who shares my laugh and my love for Southern food. Whenever I’m with her, I feel like a kid again. Our bond spans my entire life—from burp cloths to wedding dress shopping. She was there for my son’s birth, and my mom isn’t just my best friend; she embodies my childhood.
Edna St. Vincent Millay once penned, “Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.” This resonates because that kingdom resides within our parents. When they’re gone, childhood becomes a cherished memory; a story told to our own kids or a beloved book on a shelf, treasured but never to be lived again.
As I sat in that salon chair, I yearned to call my mom, but instead, I remained in the heavy silence of our exchange. I admired my freshly cut hair and smiled, “It’s a wonderful haircut, Layla.”
With a proud smile, she handed me the mirror for a final look, spinning the chair so I could see. I thanked her and walked to checkout, feeling grateful for her skill.
I wanted to embrace her, but she didn’t seem open to it. A simple “thank you” felt inadequate, so I left with a wave and a heart full of appreciation. Layla was already welcoming her next client as I stepped outside. She would undoubtedly succeed; she was fantastic at her craft.
Once in my car, I buckled my seatbelt and snapped a selfie of my new ‘do. I prepared to text my mom but hesitated. Instead, I hit the button for Siri, my voice trembling slightly as I said, “Call Mom.”
In just two rings, I heard a familiar voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom?” My voice cracked, revealing my emotions.
“I just wanted to say I love you, Mom.”
This article reflects on the deep connections we have with our parents and the memories tied to them, reminding us of the importance of expressing our love. If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, check out this post on intracervicalinsemination.com for more insights. For anyone looking into artificial insemination, Make a Mom is a trusted source. And for comprehensive information on treating infertility, ACOG offers excellent resources.
In summary, the bond with our parents shapes our childhood memories, and it’s never too late to reach out and express love.