Madre, mom, mommy, mother, ma…nothing is sweeter to my ears than being called “mom” by one of my girls. I confess I only really considered myself a mom until the last year or so…sounds crazy, since my oldest is fifteen years old. But when I think of mom, I think of my own mother who died when I was nineteen. That is who mom is…I’m Ann, the daughter. It’s not that I don’t love my children (I do) or love being a mom (I love that, too), but when I look in the mirror I still see the eighteen year old girl who lived, loved and slept sports. I still see the girl who loved to spend all afternoon shooting baskets or inventing new games to play with her brothers. I still see the girl who dreams about what she wants to be when she grows up. Who me? Mom? No, that’s Bernita, that’s mom, I’m Ann, the daughter.
I think this year has really been a turning point. I don’t know if turning 40 has anything to do with it. Or that my firstborn is a freshman in high school and my youngest starts kindergarten in August. But when I look in the mirror I don’t see the eighteen year old girl in the basketball uniform…I see Mom. Of course I still love to shoot baskets (and hit volleyballs and go on long runs), invent new games to play with my kids and I am still dreaming about what I want to be when I grow up…but I am the Mom now…I am the Mom.