They call her Didi. I call her Mom.
The very first memory I have of my mother is when I was about two or three years old. I was sitting on the bathroom counter, in front of the mirror of course, and she was standing behind me patiently taming my hair.
Another memory is when I was about 8 years old. Instead of making it to the bathroom to puke, I spewed all over myself and the family's favorite chair. She didn't yell at me. She calmly cleaned me and my mess up.
During the tough teen years, she was a constant shoulder to cry upon. During my college years, she quietly prayed me through major life decisions. When Rick entered our lives, she immediately began planning my wedding. When we learned of my infertility, she cried with me. With each failed adoption, she grieved with me. With each adoption, she celebrated with me.
But those are the major milestones. Day to day, I can call her at any moment for a laugh, a cry, a recipe, or a prayer.
She's my mom, my confidante, my coach, my counselor, my teacher, my best friend. I pray that I can be half the mom she is.
Happy mother's day, Mom.
My Mom
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1 comment:
Happy Mother's Day!
That's a very sweet picture of your boys with your mom.
I found your blog somehow a week or so ago, and I've enjoyed reading about your family and your amazing adoption stories.
We're a transracial adoptive family of African American boys, too. (Actually, my oldest is South African...) It's been fun to read about your experience. Thanks for blogging!
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