For a long time, I viewed my mother as a bit eccentric—a lovable, albeit chaotic whirlwind of a woman. She was always slightly disorganized, perpetually running late, and often nagging. Her kitchen cabinets were filled with thank-you cards that would never see the mailbox, and her craft projects were eternally “in progress.” The saying “better late than never” might as well have been coined for her. I can’t count the number of times I was either dropped off late or, in some unfortunate cases, completely forgotten. Her life seemed to run on a perpetual delay, as if she was living in her own time zone.
This year, she was thrilled when the package she sent for St. Patrick’s Day actually arrived on the right day. Naturally, it contained Valentine’s cards, but why dwell on the little things? A month late was nothing compared to my childhood experiences. I recall when I was two years old, she started sewing me a stuffed Easter basket but didn’t finish it in time for that Easter—or the next one. I’d discover scraps of fabric while rummaging through her sewing supplies, only to roll my eyes and ask if I should toss them. But she always insisted she’d complete it for the following year. Spoiler alert: that basket never made it to an actual egg hunt.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be organized; she just had too many things to juggle at once—none of which were particularly appetizing. We’re talking about a woman who could ruin a roast from miles away. Leftover lunches? Let’s just say, other kids traded snacks, while mine were often given to me out of pity. I was probably the only college student who eagerly anticipated fall break for a decent meal.
Lately, my mom has taken to calling me to report the weather or share some herbal supplement miracle she learned about on TV. Surprisingly, these calls are more enjoyable than the unsolicited parenting advice that often contradicts what I’m doing with my kids.
For years, I thought maybe my mom was a bit slow, perpetually exhausted, or just scatterbrained. I assumed it was a flaw, convinced that every other mom had it all figured out—arriving early to pick-ups and serving gourmet meals while meticulously scrapbooking every summer vacation.
Then I became a parent myself.
I vividly remember those sleepless nights, cradling my newborn, as I rocked her back to sleep for what felt like an eternity. The exhaustion weighed heavily on me, and in those moments, it hit me: someone had done this for me. Someone had woken up every time I cried, nurturing and comforting me through the night, only to rise early to get my siblings ready for school. I used to think her afternoon naps were laziness, but now I realize they were a desperate attempt to catch up on sleep.
Before becoming a mother, I never grasped the immense challenge it posed. There’s a moment when you find yourself alone with a tiny being, searching in vain for a manual, and you suddenly understand that your mother, who seemed to have all the answers, was just figuring it out as she went along. With each parenting triumph and blunder, I increasingly empathize with my own mom.
Motherhood is a beautiful contradiction, a balancing act that’s often misinterpreted. How can someone forget to wash your soccer uniform, yet remember your birthday every year? How can a mom whose cooking you once complained about drive to school just to deliver your forgotten lunchbox? How could the same woman who sobbed on your first day of kindergarten let you move across the country to pursue your dreams?
What made no sense in my youth is now crystal clear. My empty baby book wasn’t due to disorganization; it was a result of her being actively involved in my life—teaching me to walk, reading to me, and most importantly, loving me. She didn’t document everything because she was too busy living those precious moments with me.
She cooked simple meals because, let’s be honest, kids prefer chicken nuggets and mac and cheese. She was late for pick-up because my little brother had a meltdown over his sock or the baby had a diaper disaster. She didn’t volunteer as class mom because she had younger siblings to care for at home and worked part-time to afford our family trips to Disney World. It wasn’t disorganization; it was a valiant attempt to manage a household full of chaos and demands without the distractions of the Internet.
Now, she calls about the weather because she misses the noise of children running home and the messiness of family life. She sacrificed so much to ensure her kids felt loved and secure, and now they can go days without checking in, sometimes even sending her calls to voicemail.
With all the responsibilities a mother shoulders to keep the family on track, I can understand why she might not have time for things like sewing an Easter basket by hand. Yet, one Easter, I unwrapped a package to find she had done just that—even when I was 22 years old. I can picture her, late at night, following an old pattern, hands cramping as she rushed to finish it and get to the post office before the deadline. At the time, I didn’t comprehend why she’d go to such lengths after all those years, until my own kids began needing me less.
Now, that basket is a cherished reminder of my mother’s unwavering love. It symbolizes the little girl I will always be to her, a testament to her dedication. It’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received.
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Summary
In reflecting on my childhood and my relationship with my mother, I’ve come to appreciate the depth of her love and the challenges she faced as a parent. What I once viewed as disorganization and chaos, I now recognize as a testament to her dedication and the sacrifices she made for her family. My experiences as a mother have opened my eyes to the complexities of parenting, allowing me to see my own mother in a new light.