When I was twenty one, still living with my parents, I went through a long-time-coming (and long overdue) breakup. It was the second time I had been through the same thing with the same person (shame on me, and the reason I almost never talk about it). At two in the morning, I lay crying on the bathroom floor, surrounded by mascara-covered tissues and near-four-year-old memories, thoughts of “the other woman” in my head. My Mother came downstairs, half-asleep, hair crazy, and sat beside me. She let me cry for exactly two minutes, then said, very sternly: “Caroline, that’s enough. Get up. You’re not letting him do this to you.”
I don’t share details of my personal life often (I’m getting better at this one, much to the world’s chagrin, I’m sure), but the snapshots of intimacy between mother and daughter so often happen within microcosmic moments, and all too often in the context of a lesson.
Almost five years later, nearly two degrees and one on the way (and all the important things which aren’t that quantifiable), I’m everything I am because she always made me get back up. Even when I didn’t want to.
So, Happy [American] Mother’s Day to all of the mothers raising children to be strong, resilient, loving, and kind (and to the fathers doing the same in their place). Your work is the most important work: you have the love of the world today and its admiration always.
To my own mother, the biggest troublemaker and the strongest woman I know, I wouldn’t be a grown up if it hadn’t been for you. And being a grown up means I get to spoil you from faraway lands. Thank you for all you do for me and for all of the young lives you touch every day: for being there, at whatever hour.
Happy Mother’s Day.