Recently I discovered, in a pile of children’s artwork saved for forty-five-plus years, a yellowed note from my daughter. I have it tacked it up by my computer monitor where I can look at it every day. It reads as follows (complete with spelling and syntax errors):
Dear Mom I hope the rest of your day is beter then this part of the day.
From the appearance of the printing, it was probably written when she was in the second grade. I have no receollection of what made my day bad enough to warrant the note. Maybe I burned a batch or cookies or broken glass on the kitchen floor. Maybe I’d reached the end of my patience with the children—too many questions, too much shoving, too little turns-taking. Maybe the stomach flu was making its rounds, or bad news had arrived via mail or phone. Whatever it was, I clearly didn’t hide my feelings.
I’m certain this little note made me feel better. It’s still making me feel better. Whenever I sit down at my computer, I smile. Even then, forty years ago, my daughter “got me,” which leads me to contemplate an interesting phenomenon. Even though she and I have lived hundreds of miles from each other for the better part of thirty years, she still “gets me.” What a wonderful feeling. Motherhood is indeed a gift.