I have such wonderful memories with my mom, and we’re still working on building more!
I remember her, as the preacher’s wife, sitting on the front row of our church. Very few others would sit that close to the pulpit so we often had our pew to ourselves. As a young kid, when it neared sermon time, I’d sprawl out, legs stretched out, thumb heading toward my mouth. I’d plunk my head in mom’s lap. She’d scratch my head. Sometimes I’d curl up in a ball. It’s as if I were in my own bed. Wouldn’t wake up until she stood for the Doxology!
As a young teenager, I once coaxed my mom into running around the car with me at a stoplight. I begged and begged, it was very in at the time. She finally relented. We pulled up, each of us jumped out of the car. One lap around and I was back at the passenger seat. Interestingly, my mom was nowhere to be seen. As I walked to the front of the car, I found her laying face down on the pavement. Apparently her red sandal high heels weren’t meant for running on gravel. She ripped her hose and laughed and laughed.
Another time, when I was in high school, we were in the car on our way to a southern Baptist covered dish dinner. Mom had me hold the Corningware pot of field peas, just taken off the stove. She wasn’t known for her driving prowess, and her short frame kept her from fully seeing at intersections. The one at the corner of Marlborough Road and Village Drive slipped up on her that day. She braked hard. Scalding pea juice poured into my lap. She got tickled. I bit my lip to ease the pain. Went home and had to pull down my pants to see if anything had melted away.
I can’t count the number of times my mother and I got tickled in church. Weddings were the worst. Once we were at a 3rd cousin’s wedding in rural South Carolina. As the Kimball organ started playing Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady, we lost it. The more I laughed, the more she laughed. My grandmother was mortified. We were used to it, this wasn’t our first.
I’m forty-seven, and I still call to chat. I still want her opinion. She’s my go to with problems. Yeah, I love my mom.
As good as these memories are, my joy on Mother’s Day is hampered by the knowledge that my girls won’t get to experience that same connection with their mom. They have some, but simply not enough.