At my age, my mother had been a mother for ten plus years. Imagine me, the mother of a twelve year old – the mistakes I have made in the last decade; the disappointments I have faced, the struggle to find myself and be true to her, the difficulty in facing what I have become, the sadness in the acceptance of what I am not. Imagine all of this, accompanying the trial of motherhood.

Without the transparency of my own shortcomings I judged her, not as a woman who gave the best of herself, I judged her as one looks upon the stone of Rodin, not as the flesh and blood that she is.

With age comes clarity and gratitude, perhaps its greatest gift.

I see her now, my mother, as I should have looked upon her long ago. Without the intolerance of her imperfections I see her, as a woman once a child. Without the misgivings of her intentions I see her, as a woman who loved her own child.

And I, the child, blessed to know that she was loved.