Many years ago, when he was still in single digits,
my son told me, “You’re the best mother I’ve ever had.” High praise. No, the
highest praise.
Much more recently, he gave me a Mother’s Day card
(and he prides himself on his ability to pick out excellent cards) that made me
laugh out loud. It was a Mother’s Day card for a mother-to-be and it waxed poetic
about all the ways in which I was going to be a great mother. When I pointed
out that it was a card for a pregnant woman, he shrugged and said, “I didn’t
notice that. I just liked what it said.” And then I got the subtext (and there
is always metaphor and subtext with my boy); I was still the best mother he’d
ever had, but there was always more mothering to come. My son, it appeared, was
confident that I would continue to be
a good mother.
I feel very much the same way about my own mother. I
am her first and also the only one of her five children who has a child of her
own. My mom shares something special and unique with every one of her kids, and
that is ours. I admired so many things about my mother growing up—her style, her
womanliness, her poetry, and her humor to name only a few. And I have always liked her, always enjoyed spending time
with her. I had my period of individuating—of breaking away and becoming my own
person—but never a period where I disliked my mother. Never a second when I
thought she was uncool. My mother has always been cool.
But what I have always admired most about my mother,
and what I actively sought to emulate, is her absolute brilliance at mothering.
I know the sentiment about motherhood being the toughest job is a cliché but
that doesn’t make it untrue. Not only did my mother give me a perfect model to
aspire to when I had my own child, but she gave me the courage to be a mother,
to believe that I could do a good job at it. She is the reason why I’m the best
mother my son has ever had.
Thank you, Mama.
Happy Mother’s Day.
The cake I made for my mom: chocolate cake with sugared roses and chocolate rosewater ganache.

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