Five minutes starts now. GO …
My mom signed us up for swim lessons not long after we could walk. I’ve loved the water ever since. She didn’t push us to play sports or an instrument, but she did expect us to finish what we started. She fed us lima beans regularly because that’s one of the few vegetables she likes.
She didn’t complain about driving me, my brother who is almost three years younger and my sister who is 18 months younger than him to practices or commitments. She let me go to slumber parties, even when she knew I’d be cranky the next day because staying up late doesn’t really agree with my mood. She helped us with projects and reminded me the anxiety I felt about speaking in front of my peers would pass.
I still don’t like speaking to a crowd — my peers or anyone else. I still believe in finishing what I start. And I still like to swim. I’m 33 years old, but my mom is still my mom.
She’s supported me from the beginning. She’s come when I needed her, like when she drove almost 4 hours when I was admitted to the hospital with my diabetes diagnosis. I may have been almost 25 years old, but I was terrified of my first hospital stay. It even trumped that third grade project on D.W. Griffith.
My mom was there and is there. And she comes here. That picture of us? It’s from 2009 when she surprised me at the 30th birthday party my husband planned. See, she was there? And, yes, she supplied that hideous hat!
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