The Mother of All Moms

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Abstract

rs old she went through this phase where her favorite food in the world was sliced black olives. She ate them with everything at any meal. I once bought her a can of sliced black olives, opened it and put it in a plastic container and told her that those sliced black olives were only for her. No one else could have any and she could eat them whenever she wanted. They didn’t even last a day.</p><p id="99fd">Like most all childhood phases this sliced black olive phase eventually phased out. She still loved them but was no longer obsessive about them — thought to this day she refuses to eat pizza without sliced black olives on it.</p><p id="391e">So at the grocery store the other day I bought a can of sliced black olives. At home I wrapped it with pretty pink wrapping paper and tied a red ribbon around it, adding a small note card that read, “Happy Mother’s Day.”</p><p id="b5de">I gave it to her yesterday when she came home from work but I told her that she could not open it until today (Mother’s Day). After spending the day playing with the girls I then spent an hour talking with my daug

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hter. This was wonderful and only reinforced my conviction that she is the <i>Mother of All Moms</i>.</p><p id="46d9">Today I am smiling as I wonder how she reacted when she unwrapped the can of sliced black olives. I’m wondering if she laughed as hard as I did when I was wrapping it.</p><p id="6280"><i>Copyright by White Feather. All Rights Reserved.</i> <a href="https://readmedium.com/white-feather-archive-index-c95167f7dbaf"><b>Stories by White Feather</b></a></p><p id="14b9"><i>Speaking of mothers…</i></p><div id="c5a7" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-whooping-crane-feather-c7535a6711f3"> <div> <div> <h2>The Whooping Crane Feather</h2> <div><h3>An encounter with the Divine Mother</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*IsVAYUITQ6CewA7XWj8oWw.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

(But she is not my mother.)

No, the woman I consider to be the ‘Mother of All Moms’ is actually my daughter. She blows me away.

I spent the day yesterday with my two granddaughters. Whenever I spend time with those two girls (aged 6 and 9) I am amazed by how well they are being raised by their mother. Even with a full-time job my daughter is some kind of uber mom.

Yesterday, the girls showed me the Mother’s Day cards they HAND-MADE for their mom. That is when I realized how lucky my daughter is and how loved she is.

Even though my daughter is not my mother I got her a Mother’s Day gift. It was a silly gift that cost less than a dollar.

Let me explain: When my daughter was around 11 or 12 years old she went through this phase where her favorite food in the world was sliced black olives. She ate them with everything at any meal. I once bought her a can of sliced black olives, opened it and put it in a plastic container and told her that those sliced black olives were only for her. No one else could have any and she could eat them whenever she wanted. They didn’t even last a day.

Like most all childhood phases this sliced black olive phase eventually phased out. She still loved them but was no longer obsessive about them — thought to this day she refuses to eat pizza without sliced black olives on it.

So at the grocery store the other day I bought a can of sliced black olives. At home I wrapped it with pretty pink wrapping paper and tied a red ribbon around it, adding a small note card that read, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

I gave it to her yesterday when she came home from work but I told her that she could not open it until today (Mother’s Day). After spending the day playing with the girls I then spent an hour talking with my daughter. This was wonderful and only reinforced my conviction that she is the Mother of All Moms.

Today I am smiling as I wonder how she reacted when she unwrapped the can of sliced black olives. I’m wondering if she laughed as hard as I did when I was wrapping it.

Speaking of mothers…