At the age of five, I once got into an argument with a little friend over whose mother was prettier. Not being able to fathom anyone better than my mother in any category, the debate was passionate.
At the age of thirteen, I distinctly remember not liking my mother all that much. Though I couldn't tell you why, I just remember thinking she was making life hard for me on purpose. She was often the enemy and even if she had nothing to do with a bad mood, I took it out on her....she and my father were the only ones whose love I never feared losing.
At age 29, I became a mother for the first time and said more than a few prayers that I would be a fraction of the mother my own mother had been to me.
And now at age 32, I call her every morning and think about her throughout the day. I'm jealous of friends whose mothers live close, and I regularly campaign for her and my father to decide that Jersey is a lovely place to retire (no easy task).
She speaks softly, worries endlessly, hugs perfectly, forgives instantly, laughs easily, remembers fondly, advises wisely, listens carefully, gives generously, and loves her family perfectly.
And when I first held my daughter I thanked God that I'd been given the chance to maybe have another relationship that is just like the one I cherish with my mother.