Dear Mom: Today is your 70th birthday. So naturally, first and foremost, I'd like to say: Sorry I haven't called. You know how it is with work and the kids' schedules. Plus, The Voice battle rounds have begun.
Ugh! This isn't coming out right. Let me try again.
[post_ads]I've been thinking about you all day, Mom. But that's nothing new. Bet you didn't know I think about you practically every day. I remember a funny story or a poignant quote, your patience, smile, or scowl. And, of course, how you sacrificed your dreams—settling in a town you wanted to leave, running a business you downright despised—so that I may live mine. (No matter what your age or family history, you can take important steps to protect your brain from Alzheimer’s disease. Try Prevention's Ageless Brain free for 21 days.)
This makes me sad. And eternally grateful. Every day.
It also makes me feel more than a little guilty, because I know I'm not great at keeping in touch. Funny thing is, it's kind of your fault. Of all the lessons you've taught me over the years, this one still resonates most: "Never look back."
Since I left home, I haven't. I'm not even sure I’m capable of it, frankly. I wake up living for today; I go to bed trying to improve tomorrow. Most days, a phone call or email to the past doesn't make my to-do list. Shame on me. Still, what a great lesson! Thank you. I hope to pass it down to my kids too, along with your porkette recipe. (If you're struggling to find a thoughtful Mother's Day present for Mom, consider one of these gifts that you can enjoy together.)
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I realize this means someday, when my girls are grown and have families of their own, my iHologram may not actualize on my birthday. When that happens, I hope I'll feel satisfied. That's the irony of parenting, isn't it? We know we've succeeded when our kids don't need us anymore.
You've succeeded, Mom. You created me, in every literal and figurative sense I can think of. My sense of humor, my unquenchable curiosity, my work ethic, my conflicting urges to see the world and tuck my kids in every night—all you. Those are huge parts of me.
You also taught me a lot of little things that serve me big to this day. Stuff you've long forgotten, I bet. But you should know how much it all means to me still. So thank you, Mom...
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I love the way you've always gushed over the things I write, deserving or not. I just came across some of those essays I wrote in college—the ones you shared with every third customer that came in the store. Read 'em again. Crap. You knew that, right?
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I wouldn't be here today—best-selling author of the book The Better Man Project—if you hadn't ignited my ego with rave reviews. I wasn't the most confident 20-year-old in journalism school. Your calculated support was exactly what I needed. (Learn to be more resilient with these 9 tips.)
I constantly hear other parents saying, "My child will never be..." Not with that attitude, no. You taught me not to judge the day before it dawns.
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On your watch, I quit swimming, piano, middle school football, high school basketball, and other assorted activities I might have been good at. I know you beat yourself up over this to this day, and I get it. But if there's one thing I've learned as a father, it's that kids do things when they're damn good and ready—and not a second sooner. Plus, your winners-never-quit lectures eventually seared themselves into my brain, and have served me well ever since. Now, I can barely bring myself to quit Entourage at the end of the workday. (Be the person you want your kids to be—here's how.)
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I make a killer marinara sauce, an even better bracoile, and a homemade gnocchi. Granted, you simply tweaked most of Grandma's recipes, but that's a good lesson too: Everything is better with rosemary. (We asked 12 moms about the gifts they've always wanted for Mother's Day but have never received. Here's what they said.)
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Don't remember how old I was—maybe 10? You were on a rampage that day. The house was a mess and no one was listening. You sent me to clean my room, and not long after Dad showed up at my door and asked me to follow him. We walked to the kitchen, where you were on your hands and knees scrubbing the floor, sobbing controllably. I'd never seen such vulnerability—not just from you, but from any adult. "She needs your help," Dad said. I understood instantly.
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Your Supermom façade fell that day, but with a whimper and not a crash. I'd glimpsed the real you—complex and emotional and desperate. And I felt... is relieved the right word? Maybe.
Today, when I find myself reaching my breaking point, I remember that moment and what it taught me: It's okay to lose your shit. I've never met an interesting person who wasn't insanely passionate about something. (Feeling overwhelmed? Try these one-minute stress tips, from Prevention Premium.)
For keeping our dirty little secrets
It was a summer afternoon. I must have been 8. I was playing in the backyard with a neighbor girl. Yada, yada, yada and I asked her to pull her pants down.
[post_ads]You heard me through the open kitchen window and, in no uncertain terms, made it clear that this was a) not an appropriate way to talk to friends; b) something that would lead to a beating when Dad got home; and c) the worst proposition you'd ever heard. You pulled out the wooden spoon and set it on the counter, where it simmered and threatened all afternoon. I was dead meat.
MORE: 26 Things Women Need To Stop Feeling Guilty About
But then, a miracle! Not long before Dad got home, you gave me a knowing look and put the spoon away. I'd dodged a bullet and learned three lessons: Be respectful. Learn subtlety. Don't be a d-bag
For showing me the world
This one still blows my mind, Mom. Here you are, a woman who'd never been farther than Ohio, who'd never even flown on a plane, sending her 14-year-old son on a two-week trip to Europe. You knew something I didn't: Life isn't about existing. It's about embracing.
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It's not lost on me that this had been your dream as a kid, too. There's a famous line in Les Miserables: "Somewhere beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?" You answered yes, but didn't get the chance. So you were going to make sure I cleared the barricade, even if it meant pushing me.
Here's something I never told you about that trip: About 10 days in, at the hotel in Vienna, I broke down. I remember being in the hotel room, bawling. I missed home. I missed you. I called, but didn't let on. I didn't want to worry you. (Procrastinator? Here are 10 last-minute Mother's Day gifts you can still buy on Amazon Prime.)
Funny thing is, and I distinctly remember this, I was so proud when I hung up the phone. I'd gone to a dark, scary place but pulled myself out without your help. Maybe the world beyond the barricade wasn't so scary after all. Maybe I didn't always need to call.
Thank you for that, Mom. And happy birthday. And, yes, I will call. On Sunday, if not sooner.
It won't be sooner.
Your Supermom façade fell that day, but with a whimper and not a crash. I'd glimpsed the real you—complex and emotional and desperate. And I felt... is relieved the right word? Maybe.
Today, when I find myself reaching my breaking point, I remember that moment and what it taught me: It's okay to lose your shit. I've never met an interesting person who wasn't insanely passionate about something. (Feeling overwhelmed? Try these one-minute stress tips, from Prevention Premium.)
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It was a summer afternoon. I must have been 8. I was playing in the backyard with a neighbor girl. Yada, yada, yada and I asked her to pull her pants down.
[post_ads]You heard me through the open kitchen window and, in no uncertain terms, made it clear that this was a) not an appropriate way to talk to friends; b) something that would lead to a beating when Dad got home; and c) the worst proposition you'd ever heard. You pulled out the wooden spoon and set it on the counter, where it simmered and threatened all afternoon. I was dead meat.
MORE: 26 Things Women Need To Stop Feeling Guilty About
But then, a miracle! Not long before Dad got home, you gave me a knowing look and put the spoon away. I'd dodged a bullet and learned three lessons: Be respectful. Learn subtlety. Don't be a d-bag
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This one still blows my mind, Mom. Here you are, a woman who'd never been farther than Ohio, who'd never even flown on a plane, sending her 14-year-old son on a two-week trip to Europe. You knew something I didn't: Life isn't about existing. It's about embracing.
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It's not lost on me that this had been your dream as a kid, too. There's a famous line in Les Miserables: "Somewhere beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?" You answered yes, but didn't get the chance. So you were going to make sure I cleared the barricade, even if it meant pushing me.
Here's something I never told you about that trip: About 10 days in, at the hotel in Vienna, I broke down. I remember being in the hotel room, bawling. I missed home. I missed you. I called, but didn't let on. I didn't want to worry you. (Procrastinator? Here are 10 last-minute Mother's Day gifts you can still buy on Amazon Prime.)
Funny thing is, and I distinctly remember this, I was so proud when I hung up the phone. I'd gone to a dark, scary place but pulled myself out without your help. Maybe the world beyond the barricade wasn't so scary after all. Maybe I didn't always need to call.
Thank you for that, Mom. And happy birthday. And, yes, I will call. On Sunday, if not sooner.
It won't be sooner.
