When I was in the third grade, my teacher made us write poems about our moms for Mother’s Day. I thought the assignment was silly. It was for a “computer skills” class centered around typing in hideous fonts like “Broadway” and “Comic Sans.” This is a digression, but search “Broadway” up. You’ll immediately return to memories of Webkinz and Lisa Frank journals. As you’ve probably guessed, I didn’t want to write it.
I put up a fight, and my teacher was confused. I think she might’ve been worried about me. Truth was, I found the assignment pointless because my mom already knew I loved her. She was my favorite person in the “history of anything ever,” and no poem could express that. Plus, it was barely a class. To this day, I don’t type in the right way. But maybe that’s because I was too busy debating with my teachers.
In any case, I wrote a pretty terrible poem. Our teacher forced us to use a template, but I added classics like: “Mom, thank you for always taking me to the hospital when I have strep throat,” and “Thank you for not treating me like I am a baby” to the mix. Hey, I meant it! When I’d see the doctor, we’d grab Sicilian pizza at a slice shop near Mom’s childhood home.
What the other kids didn’t get was that Mom worked. A lot. Yet, she came to every concert, every art show, every play, every parent-teacher conference, and every basketball game (including a particularly embarrassing episode when I flung a basketball into the wrong hoop, it missed, and it bounced off of my head. She laughed, for the record.) She picked me up from all of my various clubs because, yes, I was always an overachiever at heart. I respected her before I even knew what respect meant. She taught me the value of time, and when I was sick, I’d get the full day with her.
So when I did need to stay home, it was a treat. One time, Mom bought me a huge bag of jelly beans, and we watched a terrible animated movie together. She carefully selected my favorite flavors: those electric blue, toasted marshmallow, and green pear Jelly Bellies. Her attention to detail was impressively considerate. Despite being busy, she remembered the small things: Mom listened to me. She saw me. Sick days were the best days because we got to chill. Therefore, I defended my poem as authentic.
A few days before we presented the poems — and yes, we had to present them — I let my grandma read mine. She was not a fan. Zoo wee mama, I never heard the end of it. But if I’m anything, I’m stubborn. I doubled down and refused to change it. That definitely didn’t make Gram happier. While we were reading it, Mom walked into the kitchen. Beaming, I handed the poem to her.
She laughed harder than I’d ever seen her laugh. Hell, Mom was close to tears. Then, she looked at me and gave me a big hug. It didn’t really matter all that much that my teacher, or Gram, couldn’t understand our strep-throat-non-baby days. She did.
The next day, our class had a poetry reading with everybody’s parents. Mom loves Columbia jackets, so I wore the hand-me-down zip-up she gave me. We matched that day. According to her, I proudly sashayed to the center of the room. I sat on her lap, grinned ear-to-ear, and read my poetry as if I were the new E.E. Cummings.
See, I wasn’t necessarily proud of my poem. I found the entire project to be ridiculous. I was proud because I love my mom. I chose these mundane little nothings because all time spent with her was valuable time. To me, it was like saying water is wet. In a class where my teacher expected us to be all schmaltzy, I was genuine.
Whenever we talk about that day, Mom says the other parents were jealous. I didn’t really care whether they were. I was happy because she could walk me back home, hand in hand.
I don’t remember too much about the rest of the year, except that my teacher didn’t think I was some kid genius. I was never able to charm Gram with that poem, either. Since I laminated it, Mom placed it in the center of the kitchen. It’s still there, glowing under yellowing plastic wrap.
A few weeks ago, I was telling her how difficult it is to write about her. When something is precious to you, you want to protect it. I still can’t find the right words to describe our relationship, except for: thank you for not treating me like I am a baby.
Well, that’s only a half-truth. I’ll always be her big baby. But she already knows that.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
