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In the fourth grade, I remember coming home from school with scholastic book order forms. I usually would select a books about monsters, and the ever popular a Dynamite magazine. Seeing the money changing hands, I got the idea to make up an book order form of my own. I could cut out the middle man and would sell the books to my mom. I drew up a similar order form with pencil complete with product descriptions of the kinds of books. I created titles that I thought mom would like—with check boxes and prices next to each. Dog book list price, 15 cents. And, if she wanted to spend a little more, super dog book for 25 cents.
Mom would make her selections and I would run off to create the picture books she'd ordered. I would return shortly with her drawings and to collect my money. She was my best customer, as I could never seem to persuade my brothers and sisters to pay me for my drawings.
After a while, I could not raise enough revenue with hand made books order forms and restaurants in my room... I had to get a paper route. I remember watching M.A.S.H reruns with mom during the summer as I folded my newspapers. I remember being taken around in our family car on rainy or snowy days and the big family project of delivering the thanksgiving paper.
In middle school, I remember challenging my mother with complicated sewing projects. I wanted my clothes to look like the stuff they wore on Battlestar Galactica. I was able to talk her into making a blue denim jump suit, but after that she offered more direction than actually sewing services.
When I was a teenager, mom rolled her eyes when I dyed my hair and pierced my ear—but she never threatened to kick me out of the house. She let me go my own way. She didn't pressure me to excel in academics—yet she drove me from Smithfield to Logan a hundred thousand times so I could attend karate classes.
I remember my mother used to have a hard time on mothers day. It would always make her a little sad, and I was never quite sure what was wrong. Was it us? The other kids at church were better dressed and better behaved than we were. Was she comparing herself to the other mothers, that were more stylish and spent more time knitting booties and pot holders. Maybe the other people in church, or my father... that made her think she wasn't a good enough.
Later in life, she mellowed, and being so open minded and non judgmental, she realized that the perfect Martha Stewart mother archetype was bullshit.
I see now, that being a mother is one of the hardest jobs anyone could have, and that all mothers do the best they can. They learn and love and grow
and make it up as they go along if they have to.
My mother taught me lessons that I have used every day of life. She taught me by showing me the things, and she taught me by challenging me to do better than she did.
She never expected me to be anything other that what I was, and never gave me a reason to lie. She never withheld her approval.
You are gone now, mother. It pains me that you never met the woman I married, or met your beautiful grand daughter. But you live on... and I think you would be happy to know we named our daughter, Melinda, after you.
I Love You Mom.
Toby
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