My mother did not work outside the home until later in life. She then worked part-time in a bakery. She had me play where she could see me from the window, believing only her eyes were good enough to ensure my safety. She was always a mother first.
Even at a young age, it was apparent that "mom" was her most important identity. I felt it in her gaze, her voice, and her touch. From the beginning, she gave me her unwavering attention. Despite life's challenges and her own yearnings, she achieved her primary goal: to be a mother first.
Her care was sometimes excessive. In cold weather, I was bundled in sweaters and earmuffs. In heat, she hurried me to the ocean. She was a worrier; after a famous kidnapping, she placed bottles of coins on the window ledge as an alarm. If anyone threatened me at school, she would confront them. She was my protector and the first to make me feel truly special.
I recall her voice on my first date: "Go," "Have fun," "Don't let him touch you." When an older date stood me up, she found him and "gave him a piece of my mind." Though mortified then, I now cherish that memory.
Later, I marveled at how well she knew me—seeing my potential beyond average grades, believing in me despite my mistakes. She wanted more for me than she had, while I saw her as everything I wanted to be.
Recently, my grown children visited. Tired, they fell asleep. As they slept, I tucked blankets around them, took the phone off the hook, lowered the shades, and watched over them. In that precious moment, I was grateful to be, just as my mother had been, a mother first.