Mother's Day

I'm getting on this early. On the real Mother's Day, I'll be racing twice at the Eastern Conference Championships, dead tired, and without access to a computer. So.

I like to start these things with an image, or a moment--one that just sums up my mother. I think that's impossible. And for some reason, I just have this picture, this sense in my head I can't get out.

It's summer, and Claire and I are still small. Small enough that the July grass in our backyard tickles your calves, and there's the kind of heavy heat that makes it feel like there's no world beyond this fence and this clothesline. We're supposed to be "helping" mom hang the laundry, but our help mostly involves us playing under the cool wetness of the washed bed sheets. And, man, I'm just so happy.

How's that about my mom? Well, my mom's home. She's every moment of innocent bliss, the hours that last forever when you're young because you're loved and you're safe.

Then there are the winter nights at the dining room table, working on calculus problem after calculus problem while the packed-full days weigh on your eyelids.

There's the college phone calls she takes, whether they come with tears or laughter.

The car rides from practices and piano lessons, sorting through the trappings of growing up as a girl, and as a woman.

My mom isn't very political, and I know she sometimes wonders where I came from. A writer and a feminist from a crop of engineers and the like. But I think you can see where I came from. I know she'd go to the mat for me, fighting hard for whatever's best for her daughters. I hope I can take that example and that strength and put what I love into it. I hope I can emulate her presentation of authority--subtle, secure, and without vitriol.

I love you Mom. I know you may second guess and worry, but you rock. Thanks for that.