(As in: everything makes you want to, and your kids do nothing but)

Tag Archives: my mom

My mother is Earl Grey tea with a little milk. She is cinnamon toast and yogurt with peaches. She is macaroni and tomato soup on a cold night.

She is the piano playing on a drowsy summer day. She is the soft hush after a nightmare. She is rocking me slowly, singing Carole King until the crying stops.

mom and me

She is my solo standing ovation, applauding my practice for an audition. She is the voice of reason following bullying and rejection. She is taking me on a shopping spree for clothes so I can fit in.

She is chocolate cake after a rough day.

She is wine and carbs after a bad breakup. She is cruise ships and suntans and Mexican food so spicy I get second-degree burns.

She is a late-night campfire and the deepest, safest sleep.

She is brushing my daughter’s hair, scratching her back. She is picking flowers with her, strolling through the garden.

She is Nana now.

But, she will always be cattails, Vanilla and willow ware, swinging brass pots and Chariots of Fire, cradling me and singing Hush Little Baby.

mom and me2

For all she did for me that I understand now, I will forever be blessed.

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