A long sentence for mom
I know you, Ivy, you’re the kind of mother who sets up a shop on Sunday’s and lets us spend “mommy money” to help us learn about finances.
Thanks mom for not letting me quit football, for staying with me 24–7 when I was curled around the toilet bowl, for staying calm during my temper tantrums, limiting my screen time as a child then letting myself make my own decisions even if they were poor, letting me ask any question and letting me come up with my own conclusion, rewarding me for good grades, supporting me whether I attended Bethel, NDSU, or the U of M, letting me know over and over that whatever career I pursued that you would support me, during childhood scrapes letting myself figure it out, but caring during serious injuries, for being an open book and letting me learn from your mistakes, thank you for making me figure out issues by myself so I could learn to become a better, more independent person. ~Michael Toquam
I know you, Janine, you’re the kind of mom who would run down to the lacrosse field every time I was hit, no matter how hard, to ensure I was okay.
Anyway, thanks, mom, for letting me open one present on Christmas Eve because I was so anxious to finally see what was beneath the wrapping paper, for pulling me in the little red wagon during walks around Grandma’s block, for running back to school in fourth grade and making the janitor let us in at 10 p.m. because I forgot the book I needed for my project, for crackers with peanut butter as an after-school snack, for letting me lay on your lap when I was sick, for rushing back home to get my shin pads after I forgot them for hockey practice, for running to the Dollar Store late at night to get me a poster board for my presentation the next day, for the entire yard egg hunts on Easter with prizes in each one we found, for holding me in your lawn chair when I got hit in the face with a ball in kindergarten T-ball, for teaching me all I needed to know about relationships, for pushing me to get A’s in high school even when I didn’t want to, for helping me get into Bethel University, for encouraging me to become a teacher, for putting me before yourself during all of my 19 years as your son. ~Sebastian Studier
I know you, Jenny, you’re the kind of mom who spent those early afternoons in that green, faded rocking chair in the living room, holding your two babies (one in each arm), with a Laurie Berkner CD in the background as sunlight filtered through the picture windows, leaving for work only at night so as to not miss a moment except when we were asleep.
Anyway, thanks, mom, for the hours spent playing with dolls in the basement, for the homemade popsicles on summer days, for holding the handlebars as I learned to pedal with training wheels through the high school parking lot, for the bitter-tasting chloride pills and the chalky vitamins that were good for me even if I hated them, and for never being too upset when you found them hidden behind the couch and in the dirt of our potted plants instead of swallowed by your little girl, for the always-full plastic cup of water on my bedside table, for the braids and ponytails that you dutifully did in spite of my tears, for the sunrise car rides to school in the morning, for those first trips to story time at the library with Miss Jean, for carrying those heavy tote bags full of picture books and chapter books as I grew up, for the birthday parties you poured your heart into and the balloons waiting for us on every last-day-of-the-schoolyear, for giving me your hand to squeeze and ease the pain of those stitches, for the late-night help with all that math homework and for not raising your voice when I threw my calculator across the room because of it, for the early mornings of hairspray and makeup in faraway hotel rooms before dance competitions, for the same proud smile and hug with flowers-in-hand after my debut as an 8-year-old munchkin in the Wizard of Oz and on the closing night of my senior-year musical, for not letting me date that boy because you knew better than I did, for the laughter during our Zumba classes together in the park, for my insecure-days when you’ve told me I’m beautiful, for the Post-it note lists and meticulously packed bags a week before I left you, and for the teary-eyed bear hug the first moment you saw me again. You’ll never know how much I needed it, and how much I’ve needed you all along. I love you, mom. ~Kaelyn McHugh
