We had just left the store. I had been told to get into the car; but like with most young kids at my age, I was taking my time getting there. Then just as I went to open the door, a dog came running around the corner, barking at me and showing its teeth. That dog was big and it lunged at me. It startled me, and I tried to back up, but I just fell back onto the asphalt. At that moment, I saw the car door open and my Ma jump in between me and that dog. She yelled at it, “Get!” and I’d swear that dog pissed itself, cause in a blink that dog was gone. Then she picked me up, asked me if I was ok, and scolded me for dragging my feet.

Chickenpox suck. Being a kid with chickenpox and being told not to scratch is the worst. I haaaad to scratch. So every opportunity I saw my Ma not looking, I scratched. I remember waking up one morning feeling horrible. Itchy, cranky, cry…y. My siblings had been sent off to school for that day and I got to stay home. Which is great, but not so much when you’re miserable. That day, my Ma took all the chairs from around the dining room table and put them in a circle in the living room. Then she took bed sheets and put them over the tops of the chairs, making a tent. We sat together in that tent, playing board games and she read me stories. Hard to describe the feeling really, but I just thought that was coolest thing ever and I’ve never forgotten it.

We used to live on this farm and we had a rooster. There was a big field with apple trees that my brother and I used to play in. Plenty of room for us to play and for that rooster to leave us alone. We were told to stay away from him; and we tried, but for some reason that mean old rooster would follow us around wherever we went and tried to attack us. We would run of course, but it would chase us, fly up at our faces and scare the crap out of us. One day I had went out back by myself. That rooster seemed to be waiting. I tried to keep my distance but it didn’t matter; that rooster flew at my face, knocked me down, and my Ma saw it happen through the kitchen window. She came running out back, shooed away the rooster and picked me up. She was mad. My Ma had had enough of that rooster. She went into the barn and came out with an axe. We ate that rooster that night. She butchered it right up in front of me and I sat there at the kitchen table with its cooked leg on my plate.

Coming home from school on a cold day in the Fall and smelling freshly baked bread the moment you walk in the door. I can still see that look my ma would give me, that would stop me in my tracks, when I was doing whatever it was that I shouldn’t have been doing. The softness of her hands when she was trying to scrub the dirt off my face. The stern “Sit still!” she’d give, while she was cutting my hair. Reading books to me and saying prayers at bedtime. Making me clean my room even though I hated it. I have lots of memories like these.

Things have changed over the years. Our conversations have grown more complex over time. Responsibilities and having my own kids tends to do that I think. I’m not the little boy I once was. No need to “protect” me like she once did. Although, she still occasionally voices her disapproval of something someone said to me or about me online and I have to reassure her. “It’s fine Ma, no worries”. I guess there are some things about being a Mom that simply never change.

So I’m sitting here looking at this title. Pondering this question. What makes a good mother? and I’m thinking, I literally have tons of memories and stories I can pull from to answer to that. MY mother, Georgia Lynn Larson, IS my definition of that. She’s my example. My internal guide of characteristics that I use to determine what is a good mother in other women. I can recognize the traits, mannerisms, and behaviors of her when I see them. The measure of what is acceptable and what is not. What is abundant or present in them and what is lacking. What would be tolerated and what would not.

My mother has ALWAYS had my back. Always. If I was in the wrong, boy she let me know it. She’d never pull punches. She’d say, “You call a spade a spade!” and she meant it. As a kid, I kinda raised hell a bit and things haven’t changed much in that regard, but I’ve always known she loves me. Can’t say as she’s always liked things I’ve said or done, but when it comes down to it, I know my Ma is going to give me the support I need, even if that support involves telling me I’m wrong. Correction was a very real thing with my Ma and she was never afraid to give it. Because correction means love, a good mother corrects a child she loves, and I gave my Ma plenty of opportunities to love me. She did the work, when it was uncomfortable, when it was inconvenient, when at times it would have just been easier on her to let me do my own thing. She is a woman of faith. She has stood in the gap, tenacious in her resolve to see her son become the man she knows he can be. She consistently and without fail, gives of herself, sacrifices herself; her own wants, her own needs, her own desires – for me and my siblings. I know she wants the very best for us, and I have never had any doubt that if I got into it and couldn’t manage things, my Ma would be there to help me.

I’m lucky. Not everyone is so fortunate.

So today, Mother’s Day…I just want to take this time to say to my Ma, Thank you. Thank you for giving me a shot at this life. Thank you for always being there for me. For listening to my meltdowns when I’m voicing my frustrations. Supporting me in anything I’ve ever set my mind to doing. In a world seemingly full of negativity, you have always been a light. Pulled me back when my world is spinning and helped me find my center once again. Told me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it. You have been such a good friend to me. I love you….(and I will literally WRECK any fool that gives you grief. But in a nice way Ma, no worries!)

Thank you for being a good mother to me, being that example. So that when I encounter it, a good mother, I see you.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MA!

 

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