3 Things My Mom Taught Me

1. Take pride in your work.

It's ten thirty at night on a Wednesday, and a little girl no more than seven years old peeps open her eyes to see that the bathroom light is on. The mother had quietly extricated herself from the warm embrace of her two children, boy and girl, one of which who is still fast asleep.

The mother pads silently between the closet and the bathroom, donning her scrubs, pinning up her blonde hair, and dabbing a bit of concealer under her eyes. She practices her smile in the mirror; the residents deserve her at her best.

The little girl's eyes flutter shut, heavy, as the dream she'd escaped from pulls her back under. She is content, despite the fact that her mother is leaving. Her cousin will be there, sleeping on the couch, just in case. The little girl knows that the mother will be back by morning to make breakfast, to pack lunches and tie shoes, before sending them on their way to school.

Only then will the single mother, the night-shift nurse, rest her weary eyes.

Watching my mother work hard throughout my childhood instilled a strong work ethic in me, today.

It's six-thirty in the morning on a Sunday, and a new mother is already wide awake nursing her two-month-old babe. Her phone rings; an employee at the yoga studio she manages is ill and needs the morning off.

"Well, little buddy," she says, stroking his soft cheek, "guess we're going to work today."

The young mother packs herself a lunch and puts it into the backpack next to the diapers and wipes before buckling the baby into his car seat and driving down the empty road to work. Strapping the baby to her chest, she greets the studio members with enthusiasm and a smile befitting the glorious summer morning.

When the class begins she locks the doors and tucks herself away behind the front desk to nurse the little one. Then, settled, she lays him on a yoga mat on the floor to sleep while she works.

I want my boys to see their mom work so that they value women leadership, and the empowerment of mothers to do what they love.

2. Take a time out.

It's autumn and the leaves on the willow tree in the backyard are turning from red to brown, falling onto the grass and crisping in the cool, dry air. The mother and the grandmother sit inside at the round table, coffee cups resting on crocheted coasters.

The grandmother hasn't been feeling well, and the mother is here to visit, to cheer her up. The little girl is seven. She has become bored of chasing leaves as they flutter to the ground, the kitten is tired of playing, and all of the television channels just show the news. She tugs on the mother's sleeve, once again interrupting the tearful conversation spoken in hushed tones.

A frustrated word is exchanged from mother to daughter, and the little one wanders away, dejected.

The grandmother wipes an errant tear and reprimands her own daughter. "Be careful what you say to your children," she says. "Build them up. Don't tear them down. If you are frustrated, you take a time out."

A grandmother's wisdom passed from one generation to the next, that time outs are good for grown-ups, too.

The kitchen is a mess, pots and pans piled high. The toddler refused to nap, though he clearly needs one. The baby is clusterfeeding, while struggling to latch. The mother hasn't showered in three days, and she smells like sour milk.

The toddler is attempting to tell the mother exactly which Paw Patrol episode he wants to watch with his meager vocabulary. There's a very specific one he wants to see right this very moment, and it has something to do with a chicken. The mother explains, fussy infant in one arm, that all of the episodes have a chicken. The toddler, in dire need of his chicken show, sits on the floor and begins to scream. The baby, evidently distressed by this dilemma, follows suit.

The mother, too, would like to sit on the floor and cry. She feels herself begin to lose control, starting to say something she may regret. Hearing her own mother's voice in her head, she seizes the last ounce of willpower available, chooses an episode at random, and puts the baby in the crib. Only then does she retreat to the laundry room with a piece of chocolate for a moment's respite.

When she emerges, the baby is asleep and the toddler content. The mother exhales, lowers her shoulders, feels her pulse slow. Checking her phone, she smiles. There is a message from her own mother: "tell those boys grandma loves them! miss you xoxo"

I want my boys to know that it is okay to step away from a difficult moment and return once they're calm.

3. It's all about the journey.

It's eight thirty at night, the sky is beginning to turn from navy blue to black; the darkened fields of wheat pass by in a blur. The little girl is five, and looks up from her new Happy Meal toy to the rear view mirror where she catches the mother smiling at her. The little girl returns the smile, excited to be on her way home. They've been on this four-hour journey many times before, transferring from the mother to the father and back again.

Though it is a long drive and the mother had to work today, she does not speed. She did not rush the children as they played on the climbing equiptment at the restaurant where they always meet. She made sure to kiss them each on the cheek and tuck their blankets around them after buckling them into their booster seats.

The mother's coveted time with her children does not begin when they return home, but the moment they are reunited. It begins with squeals of delight in her ears and arms wrapped around her neck, and ends with the passing off of luggage and a wave goodbye. Each second they are together is precious, and she will not waste one of them telling her children to hurry.

Witnessing the struggles my mother went through of being separated from her children makes me appreciate my time with my own.

After morning nap, the mother knows she has exactly ninety minutes to pack both the toddler and the baby into the car, drive them to the park, play, and return home in time to make lunch. The mother knows that once the toddler gets there he won't want to come home. The mother also knows that if the baby is late for his lunch it will delay his nap, and then the chances of him having a decent sleep tonight (and, therefore, her having a decent sleep tonight) lower exponentially with every passing minute thereafter.

Her anxiety mounts as the toddler evades her attempts at putting on his pants, cheerfully giggling as he runs nude from one end of the house to the other. The baby, fully clothed, has decided that this is a good moment to forcefully evacuate his bowels. The mother somehow wrangles both children into fresh clothing and then plops them on the bench near the door, side by side, to put on their shoes.

She wants to rush, to reprimand the toddler for swinging his feet as she ties his shoes, but she doesn't. The joy in going to the park is going to the park, and for the children this is all part of it. Instead of rushing, she takes a deep breath and tickles the toddler's feet, eliciting the world's most perfect laugh.

I want my boys to know that there is joy in the journey, not just the destination; enjoy the in-between moments, too.

Thank you for all the lessons, Mom! Looking forward to many more.

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