A Mother’s Love

This was not going to be an easy phone call to make. I was calling my mother to break her heart ... yet again.

The difference, this time, was that it would be for good, at least in my mind. I had just come to jail at the age of 26 and had been dealing with feelings of unworthiness. I felt that my mother had raised me to be a better person. All the things she had taught me over the years were gone in a matter of moments. And it was for this reason that I was about to call her. So many things ran through my mind as I picked up the telephone. Thoughts swirling like a whirlwind tornado.

As I dial her number, I am not looking forward to the conversation. In fact, I want to get it over with quickly, which I figure will help to lessen the pain I am about to feel. The phone is ringing, obviously not in tune with the Jumanji-like thumping of my heartbeat. My mother finally answers. I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to give her the dreaded news, but I finally decide to say it: I tell her that I am no longer her son.

As I tell her this, I think back to when I was growing up, when things were much simpler, safer. My mother had always made sure to provide for my brothers and me. We generally had home-cooked meals; one of my favorites was the meatloaf that she would make. Other times she would declare a “fend for yourself” night. In other words, Mom was exhausted, which wasn’t always a bad thing. It just meant I had free rein over my dinner that night! While I never had any complaints at the dinner table, this just gave me an opportunity to load up on my favorites. Every child’s dream, right?

Even after a long day of work, she would still be “working” at home, making sure her boys had clean clothes to wear, as well as a warm bed to snuggle into each night. This last part always came with a routine hug and kiss goodnight, despite having possibly made her mad. These were just some of the things that were hard for me to reckon with as I sat on the phone, the silence closing in on me, waiting for my mother’s response.

When she finally spoke, all she said was “Thomas,” but she said it softly, slowly, almost with a sound of defeat. All at once, I heard so many things being said: I love you. I wish you didn’t feel that way. I wish I could fix it. Why does my son keep doing this to me? How much more can I take? What more do I say?

As difficult as it was for me to acknowledge, I knew she was hurt again by my selfish feelings and emotions.

I seemed to have done that a lot throughout my childhood, hurt my mother’s feelings. It had to do with the lack of clarity and understanding I had at that point in my life. As a young child, I just figured she was telling me what to do. Sit down and do your homework. We’re running late for your doctor’s appointment. We are going back to the store and you are going to tell them you stole that bubble gum. If you think I am going to let you sit here and enjoy yourself after you were suspended from school, you got another thing coming. I heard all that and more over the years. Of course, that’s not how it always was, but these things really began to strain our relationship, especially when I was being treated with her “tough love.”

I had begun to go through some behavior and disability difficulties during my formative years. Let me bring you into the fold for a moment. She was the store manager of a local gas station and convenience store. One day, when duty called, we had to go up there for a bit so she could take care of a few things. Well, I took it upon myself to take some items off the shelf and put them into my pockets for no other reason than that I wanted these things (and likely because I knew she would say no).

At one point, my mom came out of her office and her eyes lasered in on me the way a mother’s eyes can. When she asked me what I was doing, I tried to answer innocently, but of course, she could see right through me — and my pockets. She put her hands on the counter, looked at me, and in that firm but quizzical way that told me she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask, she said, “Thomas, what’s in your pockets?” Busted, but still I lied, hoping not to incur the wrath of my mother. As I said, she could see right through me; she was hard to fool.

She told me to “come here” with a look that said it was not the time to put up a fight. I walked slowly up to the counter, head down, dejected, trying not to think about what was going to happen. As she made me empty my pockets of the assortment of things you might find down a typical convenience store candy aisle, I could see her gears turning, getting angrier by the second. Not only did I just steal, but I stole from her store, while she was at work. This story ends with my mother turning me in to my probation officer, who then extended my term of probation. While that was just one example, she had to do this on at least two other occasions, when she turned me in to the police.

Those were tough moments in my life. There were times when I had chosen not to talk with her, when I pushed her out of my life. I thought I had all the answers, that she couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.

Thinking back to that phone call, I’ve realized a few things. My mother’s love at that moment in my life was bigger than the tallest mountain and stronger than any structure built to withstand the worst natural disaster; it always was.

And although we haven’t always had the best of relationships, this is only because of my lack of insight into how truly remarkable a mother is to her children. Even more so, through all of our struggles, her love has remained constant, a true image of love.

As I am reminded of all that she has done over the years — countless doctor’s appointments, parent-teacher conferences, sacrificed time and energy that she gave to me and not my brothers — I realize that my mother was still able to maintain a balance between all these things. I didn’t see it at the time, but she was doing all she could to ensure the best possible outcome for my life. I shall call my mother the joyful, juggling, jim-dandy, jack-of-all-trades!

Throughout all these years, she has been the most consistent factor in my life, her and her unwavering love. My mother has made so many sacrifices for me not only during the course of my childhood, but also through my incarceration. This has allowed me to really appreciate the person that she is and the relationship I now have with her. She is more than my mother; she is my friend! She is and always has been. I have now understood her true value: priceless.

I had a conversation with my mother recently. She told me in so many words that she was sorry for “pampering” me all the time, trying to protect me from getting hurt. Although that was the gist of the conversation, I mostly disagree with her. As a parent, she has displayed much patience, kindness, care, and understanding. Through these characteristics, she has shown me what it means to be there for your child, through thick and thin; she has taught me how to be a better parent. For this, I am forever grateful. I hope that I can pass on the same values to my daughter, who can then pass them on to her future children, and so on. An eternity of love, all because of one person’s efforts.

Mom, thank you for investing in my well-being and showing me what it truly means to value a person and love them unconditionally.

I LOVE YOU!