Saturday, May 9, 2015


She once told me that my eyes really say it all about what I'm feeling.

She used to wrap me in a towel and sit on the toilet seat lid with me, clipping my toe and fingernails, talking to me gently after bathtime.

She supplied us with popsicles in the bath, and toys and siblings to laugh with, and gave us shampoo horns (i.e. lathered up our bowl cuts and curls and used the thick suds as mousse to create mohawks and unicorn horns atop our heads).

She has always called us sweet things like "Peach." She calls me Mitsubishi and Girlfriend.

She prays for me over the phone when I am worried or sad, most recently this Wednesday.

She and I together are the two biggest cat freaks of the family, unabashed.

While not a big athlete, she is a champ at yoga and can kick your tush at bowling or billiards.

Believe it or not, I inherited some introversion from her.

And her love of reading.

And libraries.

And the silver streak in her hair, which is growing in on me. (Proverbs 16:31)

She can twirl batons of fire.

She takes care of her mom without complaint, going above and beyond in visiting doctors, stocking drawers with warm socks, and keeping Grams' apartment filled with framed pictures of her great-grandbabies.

She taught me about girl power, donning silk blouses and suits for her managerial level jobs when I was a tot. She still supplies me with things like Wonder Woman stationery.

She is a human dictionary. Ask her the meaning of any word. She knows it.

She told me to start a blog, which has helped me grow as a writer.

She assembles the best care packages.

She set an example for my future marriage by picking an exceptional husband for herself.

It took me years to learn it, and several trips to the mall ended in mother vs. tomboy fighting (sorry, Mom), but she has great taste in clothes and always knows what will look best on me. Even if it looks crazy on a hanger. Trust her. (While this post is about my mom, this is an opportunity to point out that my pops has some good taste in clothes for me, too, and has selected some wardrobe winners over the years).

And she regularly takes me on Macy's shopping sprees. (We're making up for lost tomboy time).

She keeps my ENFP father and I calm, with her ISTJ wisdom and peace.

She took us to church always, even though God knows she and Dad were always exhausted. And she always made sure we ate dinner together.

She slathered us in sunscreen and made us turkey and butter sandwiches that we ate in the Worlds of Fun parking lot. She let me get my face painted every time we visited the amusement park, and she rode roller coasters with us.

She ingrained a deep craving for milk in us, for which I am udderly grateful (no, seriously, though). And when the Brewer household ran out of liquid calcium, she served it up in frozen form: that's right. Ice cream for breakfast. Mother of the year award.

On the surface, it seems I am a carbon copy of my dad. But there is a Mom lifeblood that courses through me, no doubt. I love you, Mama. Keep on bein' awesome and lifting up those around you in encouragement and love.


  1. I love you, unabashedly. What a sweet, sweet message this is.