But today is Mother’s Day. And more than that, it’s my first Mother’s Day without her. And it hurts.
It goes without saying that every mother is unique. Each brings her own special blend of love, wisdom and insanity to her clan. But the thing is, my mother really was unique. Not just as a Mum, but as a person.
In another time, another place, she could have been anything.
Instead, she brought us everything. She brought us the world.
She had a big worldview. She wanted us to go, do, travel, taste, explore.
But be good while we were doing it. And don’t forget to call home.
I miss her.
She was compassionate, and just. In the big things, and the small.
She was a feminist, an activist, a socialist. At a time and in a place when none of that was easy, or expected.
And I miss her.
She was infuriating. Opinionated. She wouldn’t let it go until you agreed. Or were too exhausted to keep up the fight.
To my Mum, the words “I’m going to write a letter” did not herald the start of correspondence. They were a battle cry.
But she had more passion in her little finger than most people have in their whole bodies, their whole lives through.
She was not moderate, insipid, mediocre. She was alight, alert, alive. And so smart.
And by God, I miss her.
My Mum was the most fun. She could talk, laugh and entertain like there was no tomorrow. She taught me how to make pikelets, cubby houses, friends and stories.
I will never forget her. How soft her skin was. How good she smelled, like baby powder and clean cotton. The way she loved us.
Every day, when I look at my babies, I know I want to be like her. I hear her in my head. Saying you’re never too big, or too old, to say sorry. Saying no-one is just a drop in the ocean, every action counts. Saying she loved me, loved me, loved me.
Thanks for 37 years Mum. And for the legacy you left.
The best bits my babies will get are the bits that came from you.
