My Mom Rocks

My mother taught me to love language. We were always reading when I was young. My mother routinely used large words and spoke correctly, even in casual conversations. I once had a girlfriend ask me, “Why don’t you talk like everyone else?” Turns out I was speaking correctly and she wasn’t used to hearing proper grammar.

My love of writing is a direct result of my love of reading, which I also learned from my mother. Therefore I could extrapolate that this blog is my mother’s fault, so I guess you’ve got her to blame if you don’t like it.

My mother taught me not to hate. Any time I would venture into the land of hyperbole with a statement such as “I hate broccoli”, my mother would calmly counter with “you don’t hate anything.” I had no idea at the time why she was so adamant about this seemingly insignificant bit of semantics. Now, understanding that I was born in the 1960’s, I can appreciate her instilling in me the idea that hatred is a dangerous thing, and not something to be bantered about with such a cavalier attitude.

As I typed this my youngest daughter, Colleen, who was reading as I typed, exclaimed “So that’s where you get it from!” She then ran upstairs to share with her sister her new-found discovery about her father’s dislike of the word “hate”. To be fair, Colleen did ask permission to read while I was typing. I wonder how she learned to be so polite?

My mother taught me to be polite. “Please”, “Thank you”, and  “You’re welcome” are only the tip of the courtesy iceberg, but I am amazed how few people seem to be aware of even these simplest of expressions. Lauren and I are routinely complemented on how polite our girls are. As much as we’d like to take all the credit, if Lauren and I had not grown up learning politeness as a habit, we would not have the pleasure of polite children ourselves.

My mother taught me that women should be respected, loved, and appreciated. I am shocked when I see young men not only fail to hold the door open for women with baby carriages, but to walk in front of them through the door as well. I still get comments when I hold the door open for women. The most common comment is “Your mother must have raised you properly.”

My mother taught me about love. When I was a young boy, obsessed with science, I posed the following query at the dinner table: “What’s the strongest thing in the world?” I expected an answer like “Titanium” or “Spider webs” or something scientific. My mother would have none of that. Instead her answer was as simple as it was irritating to my developing logical sensibilities. Her answer? “Love.” Try as I might, I still don’t have a clever retort for that bit of scientific heresy.

My mother taught me how to laugh. Everyone who knows my mother knows that she loves to laugh. My dad was not the kind of person who laughed out loud though he did have a sharp wit. My mother though, laughed well and laughed often. Laughing, like screaming, is good for you. Both activities release endorphins into your brain that make you feel good. Screaming will likely get you removed from finer dining establishments I’ve been told, so given the choice, follow my mother’s lead and laugh instead.

My mother taught me not to take myself too seriously. In fact, I’d venture a guess that without this skill, I’d have driven myself quite mad by now. I tend to be a bit obsessive, and my inevitable failures would be intolerable if not for my own ability to sit back and marvel at my own stupidity.

My mother taught me how to raise kids. She didn’t teach me so much as show me. It’s not always fun being the son of good parents. It sure pays off in the long run though. Her secret? I have no idea. I just did what she did and it all seemed to work out for the best.

My mother taught me that “normal” is boring. To this day I tell my kids that they shouldn’t try to be like other people. Instead they should strive to make other people want to be like them. My mother still enjoys telling me about people that don’t quite know how to take her, and I still relish hearing the tales.

So there you have a small, by no means conclusive, list of reasons why my Mom rocks. If your mom rocks half as much as mine does, then you’ve got a great mom. Mine though, is the stuff of legend.

Happy Mother’s Day!