MommyHumor

My Mother My Conscience

Up until my daughter Katie was 12 years old our night time ritual consisted of the following questions. Did you brush your teeth? Did you wash your face? Did you feed the fish? Is there anything we need to do for school tomorrow?  After the computer was turned off, lights dimmed and our dog was located, we both would climb up the ladder to her top bunk, layered with pillows, stuffed dogs, a giraffe, teddy bears, beanie babies and her quilted baby blanket that covered the menagerie. Sometimes a book would be requested, and other times she would beg me to tell her an Elias story. Elias is a character I created when she was around 5 years old on a hot summer day while we were stuck in traffic. Elias, a fictional organic farmer with an odd sounding voice, lived in Vermont with his Wife Molina and their two sons. It was impossible for Elias to lie or even stretch the truth. He was having some problems earning a decent living on his farm, so he had to go into town to search for extra work. There he was met with many obstacles, until he discovered he was an excellent shoe salesman. My daughter would laugh uncontrollably at the voices I would use for the parade of customers and Elias’s commentary on their taste in shoes, the shapes of their toes and their horrible manners.  The store manager quickly fired Elias and many more stories ensued.


After story time was complete and we sang a couple songs, we would recite our favorite prayers and make sure that everyone we loved was mentioned, sometimes twice if they weren’t doing well. “Mommy will you stay here for a couple more minutes?”  “Of course.”  This was my favorite part of the day, of being a Mother, of being Katie’s Mom. This is when the twilight confessional began and her day would flow out in one run on sentence.
All the colors and the sounds from school and complicated lessons learned from friends, teachers and strangers. She would re-enact a conversation with a child that was teasing her and how she felt protective of her closest friend that was left out of the popular group. Then there would be the whispered disclosure of the boy she still liked, but was confused why he ignored her in school, but would always pass her the ball in basketball practice. I would quietly lay there holding her and her truth and all her questions
7 feet above the ground.


Last night, my daughter texted me from College, 2,000 miles away “I love you Mommy, sweet dreams.”