knock. knock. knock.
it was pitch black in the room. curled up in a comfy ball under polka dot covers, i groaned and rolled over.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“hey cel, your mom’s home! wake up and give her a kiss goodnight.”
bleary-eyed, still half asleep, i flung my legs over the side of the bed and let my toes slide slowly into the yellow pile carpet. the feeling was oddly comforting despite my resistance to standing upright.
i shuffled slowly toward the door. in the dim light, i could see her white lab coat and the stethoscope slung loosely around her neck. she leaned over gently to kiss my brother on the cheek. then it was my turn.
“goodnight. love you.”
and that was it. a goodnight—in the middle of the night—from my mom who had just gotten home from making rounds at the hospital.
i was in first grade.
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knock. knock. knock.
“UGH.” my voice was muffled under the purple pastel comforter.
“get dressed!”
i reached out clumsily, in search of the red swatch watch i had set on my nightstand hours earlier.
tuesday night time check: just before midnight. on a school night.
i hunkered down under the covers and put a pillow over my head.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“put some clothes on. we’re going for pancakes!”
and that’s exactly what we did.
home late again from the hospital, she was fried, missed us, and had a hankering for fluffy pancakes from country kitchen.
so the four of us piled her burgundy toronado and bonded over breakfast at the 24-hour diner down the street.
believe it or not, these late night rendezvous weren’t one-off occurrences, but rather a common paradox of growing up in my house. my mom didn’t stay home like other moms, bake cookies or plan play dates. she spoke with an accent, was a stickler for studying, and seemed uncomfortable with public displays of affection. but growing up with her was sprinkled with spontaneous rituals, routine surprises… and some of my fondest memories of family time.
driving to janet’s house after eating a full christmas dinner and opening presents at midnight, to eat late-night pizza. chewing on salty watermelon seeds in the wee hours (i didn’t even like them) with her and my aunts, just to hear all the family gossip. and so many more random things.
these times were weird and wonderful…probably far too embarrassing in my preteen mind to share with my fifth grade classmates who ate dinner at 6 o’clock sharp, followed by board games and bedtime rituals (whatever that meant to kids in “normal” families unlike my own).
but now i see those times—and her—in a different light. she was literally doing her best for us, every single day. when she wasn’t there, she wanted to be. and when she was there—at whatever time of day or night—she was present, and we knew we were loved.
you get the best characteristics from those you love, and whether consciously or through osmosis, they sink into your being, become a way of living or seeing the world. today, with my own kids, we bond over "brinner" (breakfast for dinner) and on vacation eat pie in bed. i drag them out of dead sleep to watch the sunrise and teach them to search for sea glass in the sand.
i’ve often written about my mom's work ethic and drive, but today, i am thankful for that wonderful sense of spontaneity that she passed on to me. we all have different circumstances, strengths and struggles. and there is no perfect way to parent. we’ll falter and sometimes even fail… but loving your kids with all you’ve got and doing the best you can for them—in your own way, in your own time, on your own schedule—they’ll remember those times. not just the big milestones, but the nothing little moments that end up meaning everything… and they will know that they were loved.