I’m sure when you started to dream of the life we would have, you thought of a sweet little girl who would love tea parties and dolls and have girly nights together. You never imagined buying your daughter Ninja Turtles for Christmas and watching her build ramps to jump and beg to go fishing every Spring as soon as the weather warmed. But you supported and loved me, anyway.
When I dyed my hair purple and drove out of state to get my tongue pierced and listened to loud punk music and became the very definition of an angsty teen, you didn’t understand but you loved me anyway.
When I battled depression and anxiety and, in my own confusion and emotional storms, I declared I hated you and who knows what other hurtful things, I am sure you cried. But I know you cried more because you loved me so much and didn’t know what to do to help ease the pain I had inside.
When I called last August and told you my biopsy was positive, I’d never heard you sound so incredibly sad. You broke into tears immediately and the moment you saw me you wrapped me in your arms and told me “we are gonna get through this.” We. Because it’s never been just me battling anything alone.
You played chauffeur to girl scout meetings and trips, softball games, friends’ houses, and to and from the airport. You served on the PTA (something I know I’ll never be “mom” enough to do). You sat with me the day I, your former straight-A student, decided to drop out of high school senior year because my depression was so bad, and you were there when I went to night school to earn my final credits to graduate with my class.
Every heartbreak, every triumph, and every moment between, you’ve been there.
You were there for my bachelorette party and there for me through my divorce.
The first time I heard my own baby’s heartbeat, you were there with me.
Every night in the hospital after my 16-hour cancer surgery, you were there, sleeping on that tiny couch next to the window over top of the busiest ER in Baltimore. You were there when I couldn’t breathe and watched the team work to get my airway clear. I’m sure you were terrified but you never showed it. When I was scared, you held my hand.
You learned how to use Google Classrooms to teach Noah when I went back to work and schools shut down. You showed up to every single tee-ball game last season. I hope, when he’s a little older, we can sit on the back deck and teach him how to play Gin Rummy, like you taught me when I was younger.
You are amazing, Mom. It hasn’t been easy, but I hope you know the love you have for me and Noah shines bright and we appreciate you more than words could ever say.
I love you. Happy Mother’s Day. ❤️
One Life, One Chance 