Mother and little bit

My mother is my biggest fan, my bravest critic, and the most unyielding support that I have ever known.

To be honest, given the general gravity and unavoidable quantity of disaster I oft find myself in, I think I can safely say she is the most unyielding support I will ever know.

It's not unusual that your mother love you, that she would be proud, or encouraging.

But it's more than that. What she is. Who she is.

My mother loves me courageously. With bravery.

She is unceasing.

I wear her out. I know it. The mistakes I make, the general disregard and neglect I have taken for basic living requirements, my inability to pay attention to detail...

I am exhausting. In fact, I exhaust myself.

None of this is to say that I do any of it on purpose.

It's only to acknowledge that I know how distracted and forgetful I am. How irresponsibly I spend money, and just how many coffee mugs I've left in my car.

Not only does she forgive me time and time again, unfailingly, with no remembrance of grievances past, she forgives instantaneously.

Say I spent two hundred dollars erroneously on clothes with her credit card without asking, left my dinner dishes in the sink, went out to get drinks with my friends, having done nothing in the house to lend any finger of a hand, and then came home at 2:30 am, waking her up when I very well know she will be on the organ in the next 4 hours.

Did I not know the actions would disappoint her? That they were wrong?

Well, whatever the reason, let's not get off task, people!

And knowing that growing up is a serious business, I'll tell you what follows.

I'll go to church. 8 refreshing hours of sleep later, having bought a new outfit with money I didn't earn, I'll look beautiful. I'll 'do my grievous' duty, and let the dog out before I go. The 1/2&1/2 will inevitably be left out on the counter, and I'll miss the prelude.

My mom will see me in my pew when she wheels around after the processional, and I'll smile.

And I'll get this look.

I can hear it across the room.

A subtle exasperation. A mitigated sigh. Hello Lisbeth.

I love the way she says my name.

But she won't be amused or elated to see me. I'll receive a curt acknowledgement of my presence in the service.

Fast forward to the end of the service. I'll come up to her on the organ bench. I'll chirp, 'hey mommy, great playing. (I'll mean it). To which I'll receive a distended hug and a thanks babe, you look nice...

A disparaging call out.

'You are in fact wearing the outfit you bought without permission with money that wasn't yours to spend.'

(Yes, I am. I'm sorry I couldn't. I didn't help myself.)

I didn't help myself. And I'll hug her again and head off on my march.

My mother is not a physical person by nature. I suspect, that marrying my father and bringing two chubby Whitmire babies into the world was a quick remedy. And now,

When I was so sick. When I lost the man I loved so dear. When my dog died. So little, and so encompassing.

Still, when she's frustrated, her hug is short, like the way she clips my name.

It doesn't feel good.

That normal and delicious drawl- a 4 syllable name rounded into a windy two syllable spoonful.

But in her distaste for my indiscretion, it's articulated.

Good morning Elizahbuth.

Where my father is a tonal man, and 'dizzy' takes on a variety of pitches and cadences, so that I know where he stands in that day, and where I stand with him.

But my mother is a counter.

Rhythmic to the core. She clocks out the syllables with purpose.

And I. Know. What. It. Means.

And where I probably shouldn't, and where she probably won't like it,

I love this about her.

later, (soon.)

I'll see her again.

I'll strike up an anecdotal story, to which I'll get little response.

I'll berate her with questions, that she'll answer with minor irritation, but that doesn't dissuade me.

I keep on until I latch onto one.

And all it takes is one. One question more, and she's distracted by our conversation.

She's talking to me. Responding. To me, her person. Her daughter, her dear friend.

And here's where it happens.

I will make her laugh.

This sounds like a scheme. It isn't.

What starts as a hell bent intention to make sure that my sweet mother isn't angry with me, (because I can't bear it).

Because it takes so much to anger her and so little to make her happy

Because she asks for virtually nothing that is unreasonable

And literally not one thing that is irrational.

Because, in the end, she will always laugh.

She will always laugh, and I will always laugh.

We will always laugh. Mother. Daughter. Best friends. Confidants. Allies.

For there is no one in the world that finds me funnier, or lovelier, than this woman.

A love so deep, that one good joke sweeps it all under the rug. And she looks at me with new eyes, the sweetest eyes, all over again.

The eyes I imagine I first saw when I came into the world


So on this day, I find myself asking,

Just how lucky am I (God-given luck) to know that love?

And between you and me, a good sense of humor doesn't hurt either.


I love you more than you will ever know, mom. Happy Mother's Day.