My Mom - An unabashed, glowing letter of thanks

Yesterday was my Mom’s birthday. She is the only parent I have left to celebrate. I’d say this makes her more important than ever, but that would be a lie. She was always the one I looked for. My Dad was a good man. He was boring as the day is long, but a good man. He taught me to treat the world without prejudice. I learned an even disdain for all people and institutions from my Pops. I learned how to treat people from my Mom. She is kind. She is pleasant. She sees the best in everyone. At times, as I wrote before, her kindness borders on pathological. But, without bias, my Mom is the nicest person I’ve met.

I owe her my life.

Obviously I owe her my life. But, I owe her more than the fact of birth. I was born with chronic asthma that made my early life precarious. I was born with genetic anomalies that made my youth difficult. My Mom worked each day to help me breathe and make it easier for me to move. She gently pounded on my inverted infant back to knock loose the infections and phlegm threatening to choke off my air. She spent time each day moving my neck and spine in a series of specific back and forth exercises. As I raise my own sons, I can’t imagine I loved this daily push and pull against the way I wanted to move. Without her work to clear my lungs I likely would have died before five. Without her work to improve my range of motion I never could have joined hockey, or baseball, or fully participated in childhood.

More than my life, I owe her my outlook.

My Mom never made me feel guilty about this extra work. She played the bad guy when me or my sisters wanted a pet. She never said it was because of me. She didn’t talk about the work she put in to improve my range of motion, or keep my lungs clear. I learned this from my oldest sister. My Mom felt guilt over my conditions. She responsibilized herself. But, unlike so many of us, she never downloaded her guilt to her children. It is a lesson parents should take note of. I never thought of my Mom and Dad as my friends. They were more important. They were my parents. They shared their fears, guilt and anxiety with each other. There are challenges with this model of behaviour, of course. It took me a long time to understand and express my feelings. I still struggle with this. I still lean towards saying everything is fine when critical understanding and intervention is more appropriate. I’m still learning to act in a crisis. My Mom can’t do that for me any longer.

I owe her my full potential.

As I learn to integrate, and express, my feelings I’ll work to retain my core of fluffy, squishy, soft-hearted kindness. For a few of you this will be confusing. The bluster and bravado is an act parroted from my Dad. I’m sensitive and easily hurt. But, like all those who are sensitive I’m capable of great cruelty. I’m sorry for that. It doesn’t happen often. But integrating critical self-awareness into a tender heart is difficult. The easiest way to protect myself is to attack the flaws of others. I owe it to my Mom to balance those judgemental tendencies from my Dad with her kindness and immovable love. I work, as often as I can, on dropping the judgements of my Dad and keeping his lack of prejudice. I work, as often as my heart allows, on expanding my Mom’s kind-heartedness beyond myself and my small protective group of insiders. It is hard, and important, work to pick and choose the best parts of my parents to bring forward. I owe them everything. My kindness and open-mind comes from them. My co-dependence and temper comes from them too. I’ll do my best to honour my Mom’s birthday by celebrating the life she gave me, and remembering the outlook she shared with me. I’ll remember my Dad by embracing his non-prejudice gaze and balancing his judgemental shadow with Mom’s ever-present gifts.

I owe my sons this much, and more. 

Thanks Mom. 

I love you.