For my mother: A Mother's Day reflection

My mother, my two sisters, and me (sitting on my mother's lap) circa 1986

Dear Mother,

On this Mother's Day, I reflect on this picture from when our family had returned from Africa and was trying to resettle back into American life. We were living in Iowa at the time, a sort of home but not quite home. Growing up, home always felt like wherever our extended relatives were, and so trips to Ohio, as I think where this picture was taken, were a real treat.

As I look at this picture, I am reminded of your unwavering love for my sisters and me. As evidenced by the toy necklaces that Sonya and I are wearing, you have always tried to treat us equally. Anytime we were gifted a toy, you made sure that there were three of the same toy, only slightly different so that we felt individually thought of. When we lived in Vermont, we were beyond excited when we got to drive over the mountain to Manchester and have the luxury of selecting a book to purchase at Northshire Bookstore. The rule was that each of us could choose one and only one book. We each had our own series of books that interested us: Sweet Valley High for Julie, an animal doctor series for Sonya, and Babysitter's Club: Kid Sister for me (Confession: I'm embarrassed to have wasted your money on that trivial series).

As a schoolgirl, I thought every family was like ours, encouraging reading for interest. It wasn't until I got to university that I realized this wasn't necessarily the norm, and it wasn't until much later that I realized that your own love of reading stemmed from the fact that you never had the opportunity to pursue higher education past high school. When your parents refused to tell you about how the human body works, you took it upon yourself to save up your money and then purchase a whole medical encyclopedia series to teach yourself! I thank you for instilling within my sisters and me this same zeal for reading to improve our own knowledge. It has served me well in my professional, personal, and social lives.

Something else that strikes me as I look at this photo from the past is my facial expression, which exudes a sort of ornery dissatisfaction. Sitting behind me, you couldn't see this expression on my face and cameras at the time did not offer instant viewing to decide whether or not another picture take was needed. On that day, you assumed that I would smile, and yet I didn't. Similarly, there have been many moments in my life when you assumed I would do the right thing, but I didn't.

There are days when I allow myself to think on this question: "Have I become the daughter you had hoped for?" It's a question that, if unchecked, could become a ball of yarn that unravels more quickly than wanted, and so I must tread carefully with this question.

On the wintry day that I was born, what thoughts were conjured up in your mind as you held me in your arms for the first time? Did you hope specifics for my future? Or were you simply grateful that after nine months I had finally materialized? When we were in Africa a couple years later, and I refused to wear anything but underwear bottoms, did I dash your hopes for my future character then? I was so painfully shy and sensitive in elementary school. Did you think that I would ever have enough confidence to command a classroom as a teacher later in life? When you stayed at home with me in Africa, Iowa, and Vermont, did you hope that I would stay at home forever? Or did you hope that I would travel the world extensively, going to places where you wished to go but couldn't?

Today is Mother's Day in the United States. I will call you later today to tell you that I love you. I will say this yet know that these three words do not fully communicate the type or amount of love that I have for you. My love for you is bound up in appreciation, gratitude, admiration, honor, indebtedness, inadequacy, guilt, and mystery. We neither choose our mothers nor our children, yet I am grateful to God, the source of all life and love, that He designed you for me and me for you.

With a love that cannot be articulated,

Your youngest daughter, Monique