Mothers

My mom made things.  She made my life beautiful.

 

She has been gone almost 3 years, and only now can I see looking back how she colored every detail of my life.

 

My own daughters are now 13 10, and 4. My oldest, the free spirit. She inherited some raw artistic ability to create. She’s tenacious and single-minded in her pursuits, be they cookie sales for her band class or a strategy to start a small online business of her creations that she would love to invite you to jump into this exciting ground-level opportunity.

 

All these big ideas can exhaust me as they typically are presented around 9:30 p.m. and require my immediate action the next morning around 7:30 a.m.  That is, when I’m attired in my faithful #fuzzypinkrobe and socks, before the first restorative sip of a hot beverage.

 

So.  She’s me, and I’m my Mom.  Hi Destiny.   I’ve been expecting you.

 

You see, Linda Anne Creed Campbell did say you’d introduce yourself to me in the form of a version of my younger self.

 

Linda, Melissa, Sarah.  Gang’s all here.

 

As I was saying: the big ideas.

 

I was trying to attend to my dreamer’s big plans and offer some guidance—then I remembered a fall weekend decades ago when my mom painted us girl each a pink, decorative shelf.

 

My dad took his Dawg daughters to the big game (FL-GA weekend; the Dawgs won in this late 80s Dooley reign) and Mom stayed behind and painted.

 

She got us a small, pegged wooden shelf; a place to hold and hang our treasures.

 

Mom painted them, shined them up with lacquer, and added our first initial and affixed a wooden heart.

 

They were simple, and ours.

 

I accepted mine with mild apathy I'm sure, but did allow it to be placed on my bedroom wall where I hung my honor roll medals and house key.  I was about ten with all the sophistication that accompanies the age.

 

I was a fairly happy and secure kid, and had no idea that not all kids had moms who would devote an afternoon making something beautiful for her daughters.  She did it because she could—because it made her happy.

 

I don’t have my mom’s exact artistic skill, but my daughter does.  And it makes me miss her and wish she could be the one to encourage my 13-year-old’s passion. 

 

My mom poured out her life for us.  I knew it a bit then, but I wish I could tell her today. 

 

So I’m telling you.

 

Bite you tongue (just a bit) when your mother has some advice to share.

 

Stand back and let her mother you.

 

You are one of the lucky ones, to be so loved.

 

Mom and the child with her middle name, Sarah Anne in 2012