Do you ever wish

that you were the woman your mother is? 

So a couple of days ago, I'm dragging my three wild monkeys through Target.  Dylan is the exactly wrong age to take shopping (or maybe he's not--Keilana already did quite well by 3 1/2--maybe its just him).  On top of that it was that afternoon laze time of day where if he took regular naps, he'd be napping.  On top of that, he has a cold (seriously?  Who gets colds in California in August? Honestly!)   He was a monster nearly the whole time.  On the way out to the car, he started digging through the bag of purchased items, asking frantically "Where's my robot?! Where's my robot?!" in reference to the small stuffed robot he'd been allowed to play with while we shopped.  When I explained that we did not buy the robot and that I don't get toys for little boys who don't listen to their mommies, the Ultimate Meltdown began.  By the time I got him buckled into his booster seat, I wanted to beat the child senseless.  I didn't, but by golly did I want to.

My mom had five kids.  She worked full time as a school teacher, in the same small school district where we were all enrolled (which worked out quite nicely for all us kids).  She also was an EMT on the local (and all volunteer) ambulance service, and probably went on more calls than anyone else.  She was a foster parent to dozens of kids who came through our home, giving many of them more structure, attention and affection than they probably had at any other point in their lives.  It seems like she took care of everybody.  I talked to my grandma last weekend (my dad's mom), and she mentioned that my mom stops by usually at least once a week to see how she's doing and then said, "My son did good picking that girl."  I have to agree.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, she taught us all to read and to garden.  I remember so frequently sitting on her lap or next to her on the couch and playing silly games when I was very little.  Even if she was doing something else, like grading papers, I never felt like she was just "nodding along" (even though I catch myself doing this with my own children even when I don't have anything else to do).  She helped put together PTA plays that became massive community programs.  She rehearsed lines with me for my plays when I was older.  She gave us great birthday parties and took us camping and huckleberrying.  She made it to nearly every volleyball game, softball tournament, track meet, academic bowl, play and 4H meeting.

And here's the kicker:  I don't ever remember her being crabby, or even tired (I'm sure she was tired, but I don't think this is just clueless youngest child syndrome--I'm pretty sure everyone that knows her would back me up on this).  I don't ever remember her simply losing her patience.  I have always been hyper sensitive to criticism, and my mom was one of the only people I ever allowed to teach me new skills, because I never felt like she was getting frustrated or impatient before I got it (never more true than when I was learning to drive!)  I can literally count on one hand the number of times in my life I remember her yelling or raising her voice.  And every single instance had something to do with the safety of children--hers or someone else's.  She didn't much put up with us whining about chores or anything else, but she left no room for us to complain, because she always worked right along side us (and, as an adult, I now realize of course that she worked 10 times harder than the rest of us). I don't ever remember her complaining about work that needed to be done.  It simply needed to be done, so she did it.  End of story.  

I've been trying to develop some of that inhuman patience she seems to have.  My grandma was so delightfully patient with kids, too.  Even though my kids may not be lucky enough to have the kind of mom I had, I'm glad that my mom will be around for a good, long time, so they at least have the kind of yaya I had.  I'm grateful for her example.