My mom lived patience. I don’t ever remember her raising her voice or even an eyebrow. And on long summer days when I was bored, home alone, and wanted to talk, she would work at her drafting table in the office and listen while I strung thoughts together endlessly. Every idea she gave for how I could be entertained I rejected because that’s what teenagers do- reject the ideas of their parents. Still, she listed ideas and listened. For hours.
In those eighteen years of growing, living under her roof, I can’t ever think of making her mad. She smiled and cheered and listened. When I turned 16 and needed to learn to drive a stick, the job fell to mom. Dad was too likely to imagine his life ending in that car with me and refuse to let me drive. Ever. Stick driving for me was a series of jerks, failures, and tears repeated at least 30 times before I could even leave the parking light. Mom told me later she thought I would never learn. Still that steady voice of hers, it never changed and never hinted at her doubts.
Mom didn’t learn patience from her mom. Grandma was a fiery lady with strong opinions and high expectations. She wanted everything done efficiently and well. God either gave mom patience as a gift or it was an unconscious reaction to Grandma’s shortcomings. On days when my patience grows thin, I think of my mom and wish patience was a gene. One that I might have inherited.
Joining Lisa Jo and other writers who like to write for the joy of it. Instead of a word, today we are sharing something that makes our mamas our mamas. When you think of your mom, what do you think of?