It's Mother's day, Mom, and you're faraway. And sometimes it's the thing I hate most about living in Singapore. Wish we could have a cup of coffee together and go look for houses that I can't afford. You know the ones, in centro storico Verona with frescoes, dark rooms, and a view. The good old days.
True, you were at times prone to exaggeration, like when you boasted, "My daughter danced with Nureyev." Yes, we were on the same stage and yes, he did choose me to play him as a little boy in Don Chisciotte and even lifted me, but I was 9, so not really the same thing...
And true, you weren't always great at boosting my self-confidence: "You're going to be beautiful when you're sixteen...what's that you say? You ARE sixteen. Well, that's strange. Then seventeen, you'll see..."
And true, you did provide me with slightly odd presents to bring over to my friends when I was little, "Wait, here you go, a nice package of frozen corn, you'll see they'll love it."
What I'm most thankful for today is not that you got me the most amazing wedding dress in the world (it was) or that you supported my going away to Ridgewood and then to Vassar (thank you!) but that when I became a mother you never once made me feel insecure, "Chamomile suppositories to help the baby sleep? Sounds totally reasonable."
So, thanks for putting up with all my shenanigans, for laughing at my jokes, and for always being there for me. I love you. Happy Mother's Day!