My family is interesting. I’m not my mom’s first child. I’m her middle child, but I am my dad’s first. I have an older sister and a younger brother and we are all about four years apart. In a way, that was perfect for us kids and in a way, it provided a buffer so we never needed one another. I don’t know which is better, but we are close as a family today.
And I love my mom.
She’s the one when I was a child, when I wasn’t enjoying the meat on my dinner plate, wouldn’t scold me for spitting it out into my napkin. She’s the one who would be stern about eating my vegetables, but then after 20 minutes, let me throw them away. She’s the one who let me watch Days of Our Lives with her every summer.
As I write this, I can think of a few moments we shared together. I vividly remember being home the day of the Los Angles earthquake in 1994 and watching the news coverage. I remember getting spanked (just once)! I remember many trips to McDonald’s too.
And I remember mom going with me to get fitted for the one tux I have worn. She was there when I told my parents that my friend had killed himself. And she was there, guiding me to help rebuild my role with my family.
When my mom and dad came to San Diego to watch me run my marathon this past summer, she cried when she said good-bye to me at the airport (and I’d like to think she cried when she saw me cross the finish line). To me, that will be one of my highlights: we’d come so far (and I had too!) and we were a loving family once again.
We’ve been through a lot, but we’re here. And mom, I love you.