And that's my mom. She's riding a skateboard in Colorado. Not bad for a sixty year-old, eh?
Kidding: she's forty five.
My mom is one of those people who doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks of her. She has butterfly tattoos and changes her hair weekly. Her regular use of the word "fuck" is a great indicator for the amount of time she thinks about what others have to say about her. I've always admired that in my mom. And sometimes find myself wishing a little more of that flippancy and self-assuredness found its way through the gene pool.
When I was younger, I dreaded growing up to be my mom. Don't we all? I was always told: "You must be Beth's son!" or "Don't you look just like your mom!" and I despised it. I hated that lack of originality and that a son, a male child, could be so similar to their female parent. Looking back, it's funny to recognize and observe that reluctance to be so frequently compared to my mother. Because now: I would be lucky to be half the person my mumsy is. She's dynamic and friendly, huge-hearted and caring. She's stubborn and driven, and doesn't settle for less than she deserves.
At twenty four, my mom was raising a darling, charismatic, and dashing four year-old, and also my brother. Between my her and my dad, they somehow managed to raise two spectacular children, even at such a young age. If I had a toddler and another son in diapers at my age...?
Let's not even postulate. There's just no way.
So this is for my mother, my mom.
No words will ever be able to express my gratitude and love for her, or even come close to giving back everything she instilled in me. I am one of the two most fortunate boys on this planet for having grown up with someone like her, constantly vigilant, always guiding our steps.
I love you, mom.
And I will be forever full of admiration and respect for everything you've done, for everything you do, for everything to come.
|#SundaySelfie: me and my godson, Bernard|