My name is Adam, and I want to tell you about my mother. I don’t think I would have made it through my growing-up years without having her ear. At night, when I got into bed, she would sit down on the floor by my bedside, take one of my hands in hers, and ask, “Is there anything that happened today that you want to talk about, honey?” (As I got older and resistant to being called too-sweet or too-embarrassing things like that, she humored me by using my name.)
Looking into her big, dark eyes—surrounded by an increasing amount by wrinkles and folds over the years—I always had something to say. Well, nearly always.
It started so early that I can’t remember not having these chats, so for a long time, it never occurred to me not to answer her question. At some point, because I knew she would ask, I often started thinking ahead about what I was going to tell her.
Almost every night, no matter what else was going on, she was there, asking and listening. I knew I had her full attention and complete love. At times, I suspected that she already knew some of the things I was telling her. But there was something important about her hearing them from me directly, even if it involved a confession. In the rare instances when she couldn’t be there as I went to bed, I tossed and turned as if I wrestled with unresolved concerns and unrelieved burdens.
There was more than one occasion when knowing that I’d be discussing my day with Mom later on saved me from making an unwise decision. That’s not to say that I never made an unwise decision—but I made fewer than I otherwise would have.
One time I did make a pretty bad choice at school. The episode went unnoticed by the administrators and teachers, so I didn’t get in trouble. Still, I felt ashamed and didn’t want to tell Mom anything. But I could tell by the way she looked at me for a long time at my bedside that night that she knew something was up. She didn’t push me but instead said good night and turned out the light as she left my room. Mom waited me out, and she didn’t have to wait long. Before leaving for school the next morning, I confessed in a burst of guilt and tears. Mom made sure I knew that I could have made a better choice in those circumstances and that she still loved me even though right then I felt downright unlovable.
After that, I sought her out when something especially difficult happened or I messed up. In those cases, I didn’t wait until I was going to bed. Mom helped me navigate my challenges without bailing me out. She always listened. Any time I doubted she would want to listen to what I would say or she would be mad, she surprised me—and at the same time, she didn’t. I knew I could rely on Mom to be there and that I was her son, no matter what happened.
Image by Oleksandr Pidvalnyi from Pixabay
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