Me Too, You

My mom doesn't get nearly enough credit. I have all these amusing stories about growing up with an analytical father. I go over memories of him using logic to talk me down from an emotional height, or pushing me when I wasn't quite ready for it, because I'm just now beginning to understand what he was doing. I don't offer many of my mother, because those memories are different.

In my mind, my mother's parenting doesn't take the shape of amusing stories, or particular episodes characterized by meaningful lessons. They come to me in combined experiences accompanied by general sentiments.

When I think of her, I'm a little girl, with wet hair, sitting in the kitchen while she combs out my tangles before school. I'm doing my homework with a hand on my shoulder. I'm in the passenger seat singing oldies at the top of my lungs. I'm stomping out of the car after waking up early, and she's following me with a soft voice explaining that it won't seem so bad after I've eaten.

When I think of her, she's brushing bangs out of my eyes. She's waiting for me to let go of that long hug. She's letting me ramble on about meaningless adolescent drama, and pretending it's as important as it feels to me. She's asking, "have I told you yet today?" And when I'm answering before she can, she's responding with a serene "me too, you."

I think about all the times I wrapped my arms around her, and buried my face in her stomach, and then eventually her shoulder. I remember fingers in my hair as I dozed off, my head safely in her lap. I recall appreciative smiles as I debuted every possible combination of my back-to-school wardrobe. But mostly, I just remember her being there.

I don't have to recount stories of specific experiences I had with her, because I understood her motives. The truth is, I always knew what my mother was doing. She was taking care of me and loving me in a way that only the best moms can.