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When I was very young, I was a sickly child. In fact, I had to spend
most of my life away from school and in bed. Not surprisingly, I was
miserable. I fretted a lot and constantly demanded my mother's
attention. I was a spoiled brat.
During the day, I would demand that my favorite delicacies be
served to me and that my favorite stories be read to me. At odd hours of
the night, I would ask for a hot drink or a cookie, or just some company.
"Mummy, stay with me!" was my constant whine.
Not once was that demand refused. Not once did my mother groan
or grumble. She answered every unreasonable demand of mine with
unfailing patience. My mother would put everything aside to comfort
me.
My world was very small then. There was just me and Mummy.
My world consisted of the feel of her cool palms soothing my brow
and her floral scent as she leaned over me to tuck in my blanket. I
remember her low voice, hushing me as I fretted about the pains in my
joints. Most of all, I remember the look in her eyes, of deep concern for
her sick child. That was how I knew my mother loved me then.
Miraculously, I have outgrown my childhood ailments. Now that I
am on the threshold of adulthood, my world has grown to include many
exciting friends. Set free from the prison of the sickbed, I revel in the
fun that the world has to offer.
My relationship with my mother has suffered from my wild pursuit
of fun. She criticizes my choice of friends and tries to enforce rules and
regulations to curb my activities.
Two nights ago, I stayed out way, way past my "curfew" hour,
which is eleven o'clock. It was almost 1 a.m. when I reached my house.
To make matters worse, I had been unable to call home to inform my
mother that I would be delayed. There were no phones where we were
"hanging out". I knew that I was in for it!
My mother flung open the door the minute she heard my friend's
car pull in. Her face was red, sweat was pouring down her temples. My
friends made a quick exit as she ranted at me, her arms waving wildly.
I didn't say a word, in case one of those hands should find its mark on
my face. I was ordered straight to bed.
As I got into bed, she stood in my room, still ranting at me for my
disobedience and "wild behavior". I was tired. I just wanted to sleep. I
looked up at her face to try to gauge if her scolding would be continuing
much longer.
Then I saw something familiar about the look in her eyes. It was the
same look of concern that she had always had when I was so sick. I saw
in her eyes all the fears that she had suffered that night as she waited
for her daughter to return safely.
This is how I know my mother loves me now.
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