Love, my mother’s was crazy. She was the one who waved wildly from the audience with a crazy, toothy smile. The only thing that could make her happier than seeing me perform in a school play was a credit card with no limit or my admission to Harvard.
My mother thought everything I did was amazing. She lit up when she saw my primitive artwork. She would have published my report cards if she could. I can promise you I didn’t appreciate it one bit. She really thought I was going to be the first female president. I found her incredibly embarrassing. Nevertheless, she imprinted me and I continue the tradition with my children Matt and Emma. I smile from the audience like I’ve been electrocuted. I apply heavy coats of praise on everything they do. It’s sandpaper on their nerves, yet they endure quietly just like I did.
We love our children in ways that are almost unimaginable. And I believe that all the wayward expressions don’t matter that much. The essence of what we do seeps in. This bountiful love that skips and trips and rushes from our hearts inoculates our children and keeps them whole.