See, I use them too. Just unobtrusively so.)
I received an email message recently that started, "Morgan... I dunno how you do it." Neither do I! Wait, do what? WHAT was the it, I pondered. Shortly thereafter, I determined the it did not matter, as ultimately the 'it' for everyone denotes life, and we are all ever so curious as to how one another does life. I mean, this is why reality TV has become so successful and commonplace, is it not? We want to know how the Kardashians live day in and day out, and what a southern bayou family would do with a huge windfall from a duck calling device made in a family shed. Thus, in light of modern pop culture, it was easy to understand his question: how do I do life? Why do I do it the way I do.
Let me tell you, my first inclination, bred from smart-assery, was to say that it was from the encouraging lock screen pictures I keep on my phone and inspiring pictures I see on my instagram feed. Hashtag: I would be lying. The captital T-truth of the matter, is that my sheer existence is both an accident and a miracle, and the how and why I live the way I do has nothing to do with my own self-discipline, motivation, or magnificence; no, it is due all to the shining example of my three parents: mother, father, and step-father (deceased).
Part One: The Mother of all Mothers.
Let's rewind. Two months prior to my conception, my mother was pregnant, in her first trimester, when suddenly her morning sickness dissipated. This was not was not right. She saw her doctor, whom confirmed that she had lost her child. Emotional turmoil and devastation aside, there is still the physical task of removal. My mom has always opted for a more natural approach to life, so she declined having a D&C and decided to wait for the fetus to miscarry on it's own. Sure enough, within a week, she began the process naturally, however she became very ill as her body (stronger than aggregated diamond nanorods) held on to the placenta and she nearly bled to death. My father had already left for the hospital to drive the lost fetus as my mother's life slowly slipped away at home. My father made it home just in time to drive her to hospital. Ten months later, I was born. My mom was forty.
Here is just one instance of the triumphant example my mom has been in my life. If ever I have reason to give up or give in, I should only think of her, the woman whose mere delivery of me to this earth was miraculous.
Here's another little didactic story. As it were that my parents separated when I was an infant, I had a single mother of five, whom found a way to be both stay-at-home-martha-stewart-mother-of-the-century by day and career-woman by night. Yes, I know what you're thinking: how? Seriously, I still don't believe it. She must have had a clone. What kind of human being can work from 8p until 6a and get woken up by her daughter at 7a for cartoons and still welcome her in for a snuggle? What kind of full-time working mother of five still has time to write love notes in her children's lunches, deliver flowers on their birthdays, sew their halloween costumes and holiday dresses, sit in the front row at their choir performances that they lip sync the entire time, and be the 'hot chocolate mom' at all their soccer games. And whose mom has time to listen to every story or essay their child has written, to every piano song ever attempted, to every speech ever delivered, to every favorite passage from books that they've ever read? Who? My mom.
The point here is not to brag that "my mom is better than your mom" (but, if you've met the woman, you already know that). The point here is that my mom is my hero, because she is well-adjusted. She is the only human being I know on the face of the planet who is completely and utterly free of the default human setting that "I" am the center of the universe. By way of example, she lives with a simple awareness of others, and makes little sacrifices for them over and over without expectation or exception. This is how we are to live. This is why I live the way I do.
I love you, Mom.
