When Clara was born early, my mom immediately hopped on a plane, flew to Syracuse, and stayed for two weeks. She cooked for us, cleaned our apartment, and drove me back and forth to the hospital to visit Clara, since I couldn't drive and was managing to have a very slow c-section recovery--probably from the stress of Clara's time in the hospital and all the back-and-forthing.
The thing is, when I was in the NICU with Clara, my mom was huddled in a waiting room, feverish and miserable, because the whole time she was really quite ill. She finally realized she didn't just have a typical head cold, so she dragged herself to urgent care, where she discovered she actually had pneumonia and was treated with IV antibiotics. She was truly miserable, but never once complained. She just kept on going and took exquisite care of us during a very stressful time. She didn't even get to see Clara until the day before she left, when she'd been on the antibiotics long enough for the nurses to let her into the NICU wearing a surgical mask. I still remember her expression of love and wonder as she held that tiny girl in her arms for the first time.
Not quite two years later, my mom drove with me and then 19-month-old Clara from Syracuse to Coeur d'Alene. It was a truly miserable drive, compounded by my pregnancy, some truly horrible weather, a sad little toddler, and--of course--the world's tiniest car. Three months later, she came back to Coeur d'Alene after Jonathan's birth. She still cooked and cleaned for us, but she also spent hours entertaining Clara and making her feel like she was the most special little girl on the planet.
Just two months ago, my mom came again, this time to Missouri to help me recover from yet another birth. She played with my kids, talked with me for hours, did my laundry, cooked my meals, and made me feel capable of taking care of three kids by myself. By the time she left, I was strong enough (physically and emotionally) to give independent mothering a whirl again. She helped me get strong enough.
And nearly eight years ago, my mom flew from California to Utah in chilly late February to wait with me and Jeremy as we anticipated the birth of our first baby. Once again, she cooked and cleaned and talked. She helped us time my early contractions. She told us it was time to go to the hospital. And then she prayed and cried with Jeremy while I was taken into emergency surgery to try to save our little Sam's life. She stayed with us after we made the decision to take Sam off of life support, and she sat near us while we waited for Sam's heart to beat its last beat. She held him and loved him. She and Jeremy's mom dressed him for burial. She sat with me at his graveside service. She listened to me talk and cry and wonder about the experience for years. She still does.
My mom has been with me to welcome all four of my beautiful children into the world. She has loved each of them. She has loved me. She is the one who taught me how to be a mother, because she is my mother--a wonderful mother, full of fire and light and fun and passion and compassion. But she's also been more than my mother. She's been my dearest friend. I love her, I treasure her, and today I also say,
Happy Birthday, Mom.