I have to admit that I’m a competitive person and a control freak. I love having everything around me well organized. I’m one of those people who has to take a deep breath to keep from overreacting when I see rowdy children who are taking advantage of their mothers and making the rest of us miserable with their noise and bad behavior. I like order and design around me. I like being in charge of my domain and so when my mother was alive she and I would often vie for position, even as far back as when I was a child. I was one of those quiet, passive aggressive souls who looked really good to those on the outside but tried my mom’s patience back at home. She was always a bit baffled by my independent spirit as though she never thought to consider that I had modeled myself after her. While my brothers generally conformed to her wishes I was constantly questioning her. I suspect that it was exhausting for her to continually find herself wondering why I was so strong willed. We were, in fact, two of a kind!

The battles between me and my mother only accelerated as she grew older and her mental illness became more frightening. I had to take charge to keep her well but to Mama it seemed more like I was usurping her place in the family structure. Our verbal fisticuffs were often exhausting. I would have preferred to allow her the freedom to lead her life in her own way but her behavior had become frightening. I knew that I had to keep her from neglecting and even harming herself. It was a dirty job but someone had to do it. It changed our relationship over time into one that was often combative. I hated having to be that way.

Three Mother’s Days have passed since my Mama died. I have had time to rest and to reflect on our time together. Somehow the memories that have overtaken my mind are all of the good ones. The angry moments have faded into dust. When I think of my mother I am able to recall the kind, caring, and courageous woman that she was even when her mental illness attempted to strip her of her true identity. I have stepped back just enough to see the big picture of our time together and I know that it was mostly quite beautiful. There are very few people that I know who are as saintly as my mother truly was.

I understand that everyone has a somewhat beatific vision of moms but I am quite certain that in the case of mine a virtuous image is accurate beyond a doubt and I would be backed up by those who knew her. Few people have to endure the continual difficulties physically, emotionally, and financially that were present in her daily routine from the time that she was a child. No matter what was happening to her she never lost her unwavering faith in God. Her generosity and compassion were legendary among family, friends, and coworkers. She rarely complained even though her life was as difficult as it gets. She was optimistic when there were few signs that being so was wise. She would have fought to the death for her children and like her mother before her she sacrificed for us without fanfare.

I never thought to put myself in her shoes. We children are often like that. We believe that we are unique in the grand scheme of things and that our mothers cannot possibly understand us. Over the course of our own lives we begin to receive little hints that perhaps our moms have indeed been where we have been. They walked with us from the very moment of our conceptions. They spoke to us in the wombs. They smiled at our first kicks. They sang to us and became excited at the very thought of holding us for the first time. They were exhausted from the night time feedings and the times when they had to rock us for hours when we were sick but they never really complained. When they became ill they found ways to soldier on because there was no time for them to collapse.

Our mothers worried about us even when we did not realize it. They delighted in watching us play. They read to us and rejoiced when we began to learn. They hung our childish art work on the wall and thought that the pieces were as wonderful as Van Gogh’s. They took us to church and made cookies for our friends. They cried without letting us know when they saw that our hearts were broken by meanness. They devoted the best years of their own lives to our care. All the while we simply moved forward often thinking that they were out of touch or that they did not have any idea what life was like for us. It was not until we had our own children that we saw the full view of everything that they had done.

When we left their homes and launched our own lives their mothering did not end. If they were wise they gave us the freedom to make our own choices and mistakes without judgement. They stood in the wings watching us take the stage and felt as proud as ever. They were always just a step ahead of us in experiences. They knew full well how we were feeling and what we would face. They enjoyed the time when we presented them with grandchildren, little ones that they only had to love without all of the duties and complications.

One day all mothers grow old. I had thought that mine would live well into her nineties just as her three sisters have. She would have been eighty nine had she not died. I find that I miss her laughter and her joyful spirit a bit more with each passing year. I think that I am more aware than ever just how incredible she was and I would love to have the opportunity to see her just one more time to tell her how much I love and appreciate her.

I am now the matriarch in my family. I had always thought that it would be good to be the queen but I have found that it is an honor that I do not enjoy. By default it means that my own mother is forever gone and I would gladly relinquish my title to have her back in our midst. All of us realize just what a vacant place there is without her. Somehow a mother is irreplaceable and all too soon gone.

I used to wonder about friends who became emotional whenever they thought about their deceased mothers. I knew women whose eyes would fill with tears at the mere mention of their moms. I could not imagine why these normally rational individuals would turn to mush. Now of course I understand.

We women enjoy a kind of sisterhood. We are caretakers by nature. Sometimes the urge to nurture and protect takes the form of becoming a mother but there are other ways that women show their maternal instincts. Some among us never have children but they care for the young of others as teachers or nurses or nannies or leaders or innovators. They are mothers in their own way. They too play a part in helping the most helpless members of society to grow in wisdom and age and grace.

I am closer than ever to having experienced all of the phases of my mother’s life story. I have been a child. I have struggled through adolescence. I have fallen in love. I have married. I have been a mother. I have watched my children grow into adults. I have watched my nest empty. I have rejoiced in the new life of my grandchildren. I have said goodbye to my mother forever. I have walked in her shoes and now I walk in my own. It is both a beautiful and a terrifying experience.

My circle of life is still incomplete. I suspect and hope that I will be blessed with many more years to enjoy the experience of being a woman, of being a mother. I hope that with my writing and my memories I will be able to honor my own beautiful mother, Ellen Margaret Ulrich Little. I want to rejoice in my daughters, Maryellen and Catherine, who are far better mothers than I ever managed to be. I want the elder women who have so influenced me like Valeria, Polly, Claudia, and Rosemary to know that I learned how to love from them. Mostly I want all of the mothers and those who perform the tasks of mothers to know that they are doing the most critical work that there is. You are beautiful! You are kind! You are important!