“There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one”-Jill Churchill

The other day my mom says to me: "So, you don't think your posts about your childhood make me sound crazy do you?"
"Not at all!" I say, "They just make you seem funny and cute."
"Really?"
"Yes! Of course!"

Well, ok. Between me and you...maybe just the tiniest amount crazy.

I then told her that in some countries in the world, there are parents who go to bed with never getting blogged about and she should be thankful.

A sign of a good childhood is one where you didn't know how good you had it until you are no longer a child. I had no idea growing up that childhood could be ever be a scary or dangerous place. Traumatic things for me were if you didn't hear the call for ice cream and by the time you got downstairs, six other siblings had already devoured it. Animals! Or maybe it would be road trips where my sister would look at me. Or how about being forced to go to bed at the usual time during Daylights Savings. You'd lay there and hear your friends still playing outside and have to hang a sheet over the blinds to block out the sun.

"I can't sleep! It's not even dark!"
"Close your eyes and then it will be!"

Dying of thirst during church, and Mom telling you to just swallow your spit.
Not being able to talk on the phone until chores and homework were done.

I know. It was rough right?

One of my earliest memories is my mom helping me keep a journal. It was a wooden journal bound with leather strings. I couldn't write of course, but Mom helped me recall my day and I'd draw it in pictures. You might even say she helped me write my first stories. (And if I ever make it big and rich as an author, someone will say that.)

For my sixteenth birthday my Mom had me watch the kids while she ran an errand. I spent the next couple of hours in bitter resentment that my life was so unfair. I didn't know anybody who had to babysit their brothers and sisters on their birthday. Turns out Mom's errand consisted of braving a snowstorm to pick up 16 long stem birthday roses.

Once in college, I had lost my job and was just feeling stressed out and low. I called my Mom and told her I felt lost and confused and was losing faith. She told me to read my scriptures and find one that reminded me of how much my Savior loved me. The comfort I received from that experience is a defining moment in my testimony.

When Justin was born I flew back to Chicago to visit my family. I told her I couldn't believe how much I loved him. That it was instant and powerful but that I didn't always feel like I knew what I was doing. What if I screwed this up? She hugged me, smiled, "Welcome to the club."

Now I'm 31, and there are times I'd still like to climb onto her lap, have her play with my hair and tell me everything is going to be okay. But people tend to look at you weird. Instead I draw on my memories and the things she instilled in me that no amount of eye rolling or foot stomping could prevent. I remember to be firm but fair. To mix mercy with justice. To keep my sense of humor. To teach my kids how to work and how to be strong against the hardships of life. And some days...just a liiiiittle bit of the crazy.

I took for granted on a daily basis that what we were was safe and warm, loved and cared for. What an awesome thing to never know any different, and to think that one of life's great tragedies was never getting sugar cereals. Thank you Mom for the patience and love, the laughter and support. And lest we ever forget, the 36 hours of labor.