LETTERS FROM MOM (A Christmas Message for Parents)

While cleaning out her basement, my sister in law found a box that contained letters, homemade cards, report cards and books that belonged to my mother. I was pleasantly surprised when my husband came home carrying her gift to me.  I am grateful my sister in law took the time to save the box and recognize the sentimental value of the items within it.  I spent that Sunday evening going through a mound of treasures, reclaiming memories I forgot even existed. 

One particular piece of paper from April 20, 1975 moved me to tears. It reminded me just how incredible my mother was.  It reminded me just how darn good she was at motherhood. It reminded me of a time when she was trying to teach me how to write. 

Mom would write letters to me a few times a week and when I would get home the letters would be waiting for me on the kitchen table.  My mother then required me to sit down, eat a snack and write a letter back to her on the same piece of paper, but on the opposite side.  This is how I learned to write. 

One particular letter stated…

Dear Teresa,

Are you going to school tomorrow? Are you buying your lunch? Do you want gingerbread men for a treat for blue birds?  I hope it is warm tomorrow, don’t you?  What are you wearing to school?  I will quit writing for now.  I love you. 

Love, Mom

I replied back….

 Dear Mom,

I love you.  You are pretty. Yes, you are. Are you going to tennis? I love you! I love you! You are teh nice is mom I ever had.

Form, Teresa

There were lots of errors in my letter, yet I don’t remember my mother ever correcting me over those errors, or perhaps her “corrections” were so gentle and effective that it didn’t seem like I was being corrected. Yet I do remember her teaching me to “write what you feel” and “write from your heart.” I remember her saying “don’t worry about the spelling, it will work itself out, just write.”  What a wise woman she was to accidently anticipate the technology of spell check long before it’s arrival.  What a wise woman she was to teach her daughter the joy and pleasure of expressing herself in a letter or a poem without worrying about where a comma goes.  Perhaps this is why I often leave out commas. Her voice plays gently in my head, “It doesn’t really matter dear…just write.”

Reading the letter from my mother was like washing my 52-year-old heart in a river of love.  I vividly remember chomping down on gingerbread men…those old-fashioned cookies I had forgotten about until last Sunday. The unique flavor came to me in her letter.

I remember wearing my blue bird outfit and sitting in a circle with other little blue bird girls. I remember disliking the blue bird hat. Perhaps it rubbed against my ears – the same ears I spent a lifetime hiding. The memory came to me in her letter.  

My mother must have been exceptionally proud of the letter I wrote to her on April 20, 1975 because she dated it and wrote “Teresa wrote this for me. 6 years old.”  She folded it up and placed it inside a book, like a treasure buried in the sand, to be found 44 years later.

My mother’s letter and unexpected message was late to arrive but the timing could not have been better. During this Christmas season of giving, when parents feel so much pressure to buy their young children the latest toys, gadgets and computer games, I would like to give these same young parents a little bit of unsolicited advice; Resist the urge to overspend. Resist the urge to buy more than a few presents per child. These toys, gadgets and games will long be forgotten.   Ask your son what gifts Santa gave to him two years ago?  He won’t remember. Ask your daughter what gifts she received from you last year?  She won’t remember.  While you work yourself to death, go in debt another year and sacrifice your January mortgage so the kids can rip into 20 presents like a wild banshee – remember you are doing this for YOU and not for THEM.  It makes you feel good to spoil your kids but spoiling isn’t what they need. 

Children remember traditions.  Children remember routines.

They remember prayers said together before bed…God bless this family. Protect us from evil. Keep us safe and in your favor. Forgive us for our sins. In Jesus’ name we pray – Amen.  

They remember certain bible verses they were asked to memorize…his word is a lamp for my feet and a light for my path.

They remember the smell of their Grandmother’s spaghetti sauce as they walked up the drive-way after a long day at school.

They remember songs you taught them to sing like Queen of Hearts, Mississippi Girl, Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue and Beer for My Horses.  

They remember certain home-made, colorful and outdated ornaments that hung on the Christmas tree year after year.  

They remember the bag of “reindeer food” (AKA; dried oatmeal) their Aunt placed in a plastic baggie and hung on the tree.

They remember their dad getting out a ladder and climbing on the roof looking for a present left from Santa.

They remember annual family vacations where large sand castles were built and then washed away to the sea come nightfall, only to be built again.

They remember catching Florida lizards and fire flies, with their cousins, under a mangrove of palm trees.

They remember playing man hunt and kick the can in the autumn night with their friends and neighbors.

They remember watching their Papa sit in his beach chair surf fishing under the warm April sun while he sent them on the exciting task of digging up more sand fleas for bait.

They remember the day their Uncle taught them how to shoot pheasants in Kansas and make pheasant stew.

They remember snapping turtles, bullfrogs and muddy crawdad mounds next to the creek.

They remember Fourth of July firecrackers in the back yard and red, white and blue strawberry / blueberry desserts.

They remember blanket forts and flashlights where they made big plans and launched sophisticated nerf attacks on their cousins.

They remember basketball dribbling routines and football plays, like 49 sweep, formulated by their dad and practiced over and over on the hardwood floor of the living room. 

They remember the porch light their dad installed to light up the basketball hoop on hot summer nights while they practiced the pick and roll.

They remember their Grandmother cackling and purposely walking hunched over as she dressed like a witch while handing out Halloween candy.

They remember their Papa religiously mowing the grass and keeping a narrow pathway cleared behind the pine trees so they could feel like explorers as they foraged for pine cones.

They will remember all of this but they won’t remember the toys you have placed under the tree tonight.  So go easy on the season and remember the reason.  

They will remember the bad times too.  The arguments, the fights, the tears, the unintentional drama that you wish you could go back and fix. But don’t worry…this too was a gift.  The gift of learning that no family is perfect but you love each other any ways.

And sometimes, 44 years later, they will remember things they had forgotten. They will remember coming home and writing letters to you at the kitchen table, where commas don’t matter but love does.

Merry Christmas Mom. 

@copyright

By Teresa McIntosh-Hall

Teresa McIntosh-Hall is a writer blogger social worker and political activist who wishes you and your family a very Merry Christmas without the commas.