My mother is the epitome of patience. Sort of my antithesis, if you will… everything I wish I could be. My mother rarely, if ever, yelled at my brother and me, even when we totally and completely deserved it. She hardly ever let her anger boil up so that we could see her frustration. She most always remained calm despite our antics.
Not only that but she would always make time to play with us. Like dishes-be-damned, make-our-stuffed-animals-talk-to-us, spend-hours-at-“Chutes and Ladders” kind of play. Dance routines we made up that required “judging?” No problem. Shrinky Dinks that mandated parental supervision and a hot oven? She had time for that. No matter what silly activity we concocted next, she would never be too busy to hear it out or watch us do it. I wish I could be so good at that.
And she hasn’t lost her touch. As hotda (grandma, in Zuni), she still engages in long games of hide-and-seek with Warren and holds Madeline for hours while she naps in her arms.
The most recent testiment of her patience and selfless love: she sat in the car with Maddie screaming for thirty minutes straight as we drove home from Los Angeles and tried to console her the entire time. 30 minutes. Enclosed car. Not a single complaint or word of discouragement. Just a genuine concern for her little granddaughter.
I love my mother. Mom, I hope to grow up to be just like you someday.