Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. If you live in a cave, let this be your reminder to get the woman who sustained your life for nine months in the womb, birthed you, fed you, dressed you, changed your diapers, kissed your ouchies, dried your tears, caused some tears of her own, offered you advice, berated you, grounded you, friended you on Facebook, etc. a card, flowers, or a simple phone call saying, “Hey, thanks mom. Love you, too.”
My own mom always asks me why I’ve never written a story about her. I’ve written stories about other family members, but why not her? Honestly, I don’t have a good answer for that. It’s not like my mom and I haven’t shared countless hours of laughs together, or we don’t have our own story to share, because we do.
So, Robin, in honor of you, here’s your story. It’s short, sweet, and to the point…
My mom is embarrassed by her hands. They’re rough-skinned, red, and scarred. She works as a welder, so her occupation has taken its toll on them. Numerous surgical scars line her palms and welder burns mark the tops. No matter what she does to them, no matter how often she moisturizes them, paints her fingernails in an effort to make them look prettier, she will always have these hands.
I love my mom’s hands. My mom’s hands patting my back to help me sleep, rubbing my eyebrows when I was sick, wiping tears away from my cheeks when I was hurting…these same hands she is so self-conscious of have provided a constant source of comfort to me.
She shouldn’t be ashamed of her hands knowing all they’ve done for me. They’re strong, caring, and she should be proud of them like I am.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.