Once when my brother Marty and I were young, we were arguing in the car as my mother drove us home from school. I have no idea what we were discussing with such vigor, but my mom had had it. I’m sure she’d told us to stop repeatedly. But we didn’t. Suddenly, she yelled, “I’m going to pinch your heads off and throw them at you!” At that, we burst into laughter and almost laughed our heads off. That memory is one of the funniest and one of my favorites. While that moment stands out, there are far too many to count in which my mom took care of us or spent time with us – reading, watching tv, attending sporting events. And in our adulthood, she has lovingly helped care for our children. But then again, my mom has always been a caregiver. 

When she was born, her mother, my grandmother, was nineteen years old and single. In those days, the stigma was great, and shame was inflicted. Eventually, my grandmother married a man with four children. They went on to have three children together. By that point, my mom became the one who cared for the younger children while her mother worked. I’m convinced my youngest aunt considered my mom to be her mother back when she was little. 

She also cared for them and kept them safe when her mom and stepdad were home but fighting. Back then, domestic violence was accepted and expected, and the authorities would not intervene in disputes inside the home. When my mom and dad met in high school and later married at the ages of 20 and 21, they decided that their home would be different than the ones that both of them had grown up in. To break a cycle that so easily repeats from one generation to the next took foresight and determination. Our home was peaceful and for that I am grateful. 

When they had kids, they decided that my mom would stay home. As a kid, I never thought twice about my mom being there all the time no matter what. As I grew up and became a mom myself, I realized that those days caring for children can be long and tiring. She would clean the house all day, and then I’d come home from school and destroy the scene by spreading my books and papers all over the living room floor so that I could do homework. I’m nowhere near the housekeeper she’s always been, but as I navigate athletic shoes and backpacks in the floor every night, I feel bad that I was so careless as a child. But then again, maybe that’s what happens when your home is a safe place where you can always be yourself. When your mother is a source of deep comfort. 

Later, I came to understand that my mom sacrificed a lot. She didn’t go out with friends, and my parents never went on date nights. I don’t recall ever having a babysitter. She didn’t get to pursue a career or have opportunities to express her creativity on a regular basis. Her sole focus was raising her children. All the while, she encouraged me to form female circles of friends and to study hard so I could obtain an excellent education. When circumstances required she go back to work when I was in high school, she shouldered all the home duties she always had along with navigating work life that was not always kind to her. 

When she and my dad stopped working, she didn’t get a retirement full of ease. My dad’s Parkinson’s disease has steadily caused his decline, and she has been his only caretaker. Once again, she carries the exhausting burdens of caring for another. These days, I see the costs of her sacrifice in real time and admire her selflessness and courage. Instead of resting and relaxing, she’s carrying the weight of heavy responsibilities more than ever before. 

I’m not sure I could do all she’s done. So many of her actions were meant to ensure that I never had to bear those same pressures at all, much less go it alone. My mom turned 75 this week. She has served others and loved them her whole life. I want her to know we see her and that we are grateful for her and all she’s done even though words can never fully express our appreciation. We love you, Mom! Happy Birthday!