This post is not about my mother. If it was, it would talk about her devotion to her six kids—how she drove them all over the country to practice and compete in various sporting events, how she rented a field and stables and mucked out horses every day just so they could ride, how she managed to do everything and still take time out for vacations with all of them.
If this post was about my mother, it would include the memories of Mom’s Sunday dinner ritual of roast meat, gravy, vegetables, and crunchy roast potatoes. It would talk about the divine smell of it all stirring our stomachs and about our whining about getting to eat it all while she sweated over getting the gravy to thicken.
If this post was about my mother, it would mention her ability to cook anything and then teach me. It would talk about my efforts to wrap half-heated caramel cookies around a wooden spoon and her restrained laughter watching me.
If this was about my mother, it would be about her figuring out how to be alone after her husband died of cancer, and shining through.
If this was about Mom, it would talk about her gift of thousands of dollars to each of her six children when she sold the family home—enough to help one of us buy a first car, and another to travel around the world.
And finally, if this post was about Mom, it would be about her visit in three weeks and how I need to clean up the house and pretend we are this tidy all the time, because she is easily fooled (not).
No, this post is not about my mother.