Mom

With a scarf on my mind and my knitting needles, I think of my mom every time I pick it up to do another row. She taught me to knit at least four times, every time as patiently as the first and with a twinkle to see me all knotted up even as she helped me relax and do it again.

When I use my mixer to make yet another batch of cookies, I think of her gift of baking skills (and the mixer with a hand-sewn cover) and the joy I have in using that gift for those I love and hopefully passing it on to my children. I think similar thoughts when I mend a piece of clothing or sew up something for a gift on the machine she gave to my sisters and me the Christmas we all commented with no awareness of each other's thoughts that "I wished I had a machine."

When my mom comes to visit, she cooks the turkey because she loves to do it. Her gravy is the best.

Mom listens to me when I chatter on about nothing in particular and gives advice carefully when I need it and usually only if I ask. She's wise too.

She loves my kids. And my husband. And my dad. She gives me books and lets me eat her chocolate chips. And if I even get started on how she did a good job raising me and my sisters I'll never stop. She didn't let me eat the chocolate chips then (I did anyway but the cookies suffered), and she "stuck her nose in" when we played games like Scrabble (which habit I've picked up); she helped me grow and to grow up. She taught me that good eating habits and enthusiasm for play is good. And that, really, is just the beginning.

Thanks, Mom. I hope I do as good a job as you.