about my mom

I can't remember why I started my blog and most of the time I can't think of why I still have it.  But I do like to take pictures of my life and my kids and my projects.  And I like to keep track of what I've read and seen.  And a blog is a handy place for all that.   It's also the place I know I can show my mom what Sorette's hair looks like today, or how Boo held the chickens we babysat last week (post next week?) because she will see it within hours if not minutes of my hitting Publish.

And then she'll call me. or email me.  To tell me her hair is beautiful and Boo is precious and that they have a good mother.   I usually roll my eyes but secretly I love the praise and need that praise.  Even if it's not true I want it to be true and hope that I'm doing something right.  like she did.  and does.  

baking norwegian christmas goodies.  every year-enough for the whole family. 

sewing one of a kind dresses and teaching me to sew with my grandmother.

cooking at the beach while on vacation.  who cooks on vacation?  my mom and my aunt because the vacation wouldn't have happened otherwise, and neither would the memories.

packing for camp and college.  oh, that packing.  it was a serious task.

letters to camp with pressed flowers from home.  

finding lost things and not complaining about the irresponsibles one who lost things in the first place.

anne of green gables marathons.  the tradition continues!

teaching me to drive on the way home from school.

mucking stalls.  did she really do that for me? yup.

planning a wedding, before he asked.  

flying down at the birth of her grandchildren.  rocking them so i could sleep.  

creating treasure hunts for children who will remember having something prepared especially for them.
emails packed with truth when i've been confused.
flowers on my birthday, with a note that tells me how much she loved me then and now.

life is funny.  like my daughters now, when i was little, i tried to do just like my mother.  whether it was baking or sewing or getting dressed.  then there were the years of independence i spent convinced i was nothing like her.  then a few more years that would make me laugh and scratch my head when i'd look at my hands and see hers.  and now i'm back to thinking we are so different and i will never be like her.  how was she so patient?  how is her faith so strong?  how is she so considerate?  and flexible? and will i always blurt out what i'm thinking--will i ever learn to be more like her?  then i remember my hands and wonder if she had some of the same weaknesses and consider her a benefactress of hope.

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