My Mom

This picture was taken as we decorated our Christmas tree my senior year of high school. We had tiny light bulbs, and nostrils, so obviously...

That same year, my parents and I sat down and looked through all the books I wrote in kindergarten. My brothers and I had an awesome kindergarten teacher who had us write and illustrate little bound books with the help of some parent volunteers. We wrote at least one book per month and titles included hits such as One Hundred Years From Now, and If I Had a Dinosaur.

But we had the best time re-reading I Love My Mom Because. I'm sure I wrote some nice things, but it was all undone on the last page where I wrote, "I love my mom because she helps me pack."

I was five. I don't know what I was thinking. Packing does stink, but I probably could have come up with a more meaningful conclusion.

But I didn’t. I loved my mom because she took my stuff, wrapped it up in newspaper, put it in boxes, labeled and taped those boxes, and moved them to a new location.

Maybe I was just being really honest. When I was five I loved my mom for practical, even selfish reasons. Like that she fed me, took care of me when I got sick, and did my laundry.

And then I got a little older and realized that the person who was wiping my nose was actually an extraordinary woman.

She is clever, kind and good at everything. She is gorgeous, like Jackie O flawlessly gorgeous. She has a wonderful sense of humor and brightens up any room.

Thanks, Mom. For helping me pack. For raising me right. For being you.