What would it take for you to hold two jobs at once? Drive four hours a day for work, live away from your only family, cook, clean, jump from home to home, apartment to apartment, pay the bills, and feed the cat while doing it all by yourself? My mother did, and on top of it she raised my brother and me, taking us to tutoring, to school, to baseball and football, driving us to friends’ houses, participating in PTA, and giving us quality time as a parent. Seeing everything my mother has done for me, I believe in the strength of a mothers love.
It’s five o’clock. The alarm starts buzzing, demanding you get out of bed. You have forty-five minutes to get ready for work, followed by two hours of honking and waiting, creeping forward and waiting some more. You spend your day doing boring monotonous work as a secretary with no hope of promotion, pushing forests across your desk in a single day. When the workday comes to an end you get back in your car and drive home, another two hours of L.A. traffic, like a marathon of sloth’s. Its five thirty when you get home, but your day is long from over. First you start the laundry, and then you put the chicken in the oven, by now its time to go pick up your son from baseball and get your other son from his friend’s house. You pick them up and take them to tutor and rush home to check on the chicken, praying it doesn’t look like something you’d find in a smoldering tire yard. Luckily it’s fine so you pull it out and set the table. After bringing your kids home from tutor they eat while you get ready for school. You then clean the dishes and go to class. It kills you to know your children will be asleep when you get home, but you go anyhow. Its midnight and you finally lay down, alone in your bed setting the alarm to wake you again the next morning, to start the grind again.
It still is mind blowing to me how my mother did it. Sixteen straight years she did the above. All those years, doing the job of two parents and in my opinion a damn better one than most couples. My mother’s love was so strong that she did all of this for me and my brother without complaint. Never did she cave, give up or break down. She made sure we were kept in an amazing school district and with our friends, despite the prospect of moving back near her mother and brothers. She worked and worked, sometimes holding two jobs at once, to ensure we had everything we needed. Everything I’ve ever accomplished is a product of my mother’s hard work. My mother’s love is more than just some intangible, noble idea. No, my mother’s love is who I am.
My mother once told me about when she first knew I was coming. She had prayed for a boy. On June 1, 1988 she was reading her bible when god told her she would have a son. She wrote down the date and my name in her bible, and on June 1, 1989 I was born. Everything I’ve ever done, everything my brother’s ever done, everything my mother has done, is the result of my mother’s dreams and prayers, sweat and tears, hope and love. My mother calls it a miracle, I don’t believe in miracles, but I, nor anyone else, can deny that my mother’s love gives her the strength to perform them daily.
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