Spring has definitely sprung in Chicagoland. The crabapple tree outside my kitchen window has begun exchanging its gorgeous magenta flowers for green leafy branches.
I’ve been thinking of Mom a lot lately. Yesterday was Mother’s Day in the states. The weekend prior, my husband and I moved my 75-year-old father from the third floor to the garden apartment of the building in which I basically grew up. We moved there when I was ten. I have snatches of memories from younger days, of course, but most of my cognizant childhood and teen years were spent in that third-floor, walk-up apartment.
While we worked, flashes of my mother bombarded me, things even as seemingly insignificant as having root beer floats came back to me while I washed my father’s glasses and placed them into new cabinets.
I’m glad he moved, so I don’t have to relive the last time I saw Mom in that apartment, now bed-ridden and without use of her legs and arms from the hellish ALS, every time I walked past their bedroom. I don’t know how he lived there for so long after she died, but he and I are very different people.
|Mom and me, circa 1986.|
My mother was warm, kind, and extremely huggable. An only child, she dreamed of having her own brood, but unfortunately, only had me. Instead, she became “Mom” to my schoolmates throughout the years, from grade school through college, making cupcakes for class holidays and hosting Superbowl parties for college buddies in desperate need of home cooking.
I posted about her on my personal Facebook page this weekend and was touched by how many wonderful words my FB friends had for her, all of them mentioning how nice she was, how kind.
I learned a lot about being a mother from Barbara Wojcik.
Never underestimate the value of generosity of spirit. For that, my friends, is what truly counts.
Thanks, Mom. xx