Yesterday I took my parents out to lunch for Mother’s Day. I hadn’t seen them for a while, and it was nice to sit down, spend some time together, and catch up. With 200 miles between my house and theirs, we don’t do that often enough.
My mom has always been great with kids. She began her career as an art teacher, took a break to raise three daughters to adolescence, and then returned to teaching as a special-needs teacher at an elementary school. After she retired, she was active for years as a substitute teacher. Kids love her. She’s warm and motherly and pays attention to what they have to say.
She’s been a terrific mother to me, loving and encouraging. She supported me in things I wanted to explore, like music and writing. She was proud of my academic achievements. Although we sometimes had our differences during my teens years, we grew closer again after I did some growing up. After my daughter was born, she stepped in to help when I needed her. My daughter has always been close to both my parents, and I treasure their relationship.
And Mom always believed I’d become an author, even when I headed down half a dozen other paths. When we met for lunch yesterday, she was carrying her copy of Deadtown, which she’d brought along to read on the drive. It’s not her style of fiction, and I’m not quite sure what she thinks of it, but she’s proud of me for writing it.