I am not a "what", I am a "yes ma'am!"

     I can't help but think of my mom today.  I am so very blessed to have the mother that I did.  So many memories both hilarious and heartbreaking course through my heart and mind today. 
    
     In an attempt to celebrate my own mother I just want to share some thoughts.  There is no organization to these thoughts as my memories of her are so great that there is no way I could ever share even the best with you.  So you'll have to settle for some highlights. 

Camp Hoblitzelle

     My mother was a consummate lady. If she stood to her full height she reached almost 5 foot 1.  Her stature did not stop her from commanding a household of four children.  In her ministry in The Salvation Army, she served with my father as the Divisional Youth Secretary for the great and powerful Texas division.  During those five summers she was mother to countless children and teenagers.  At the beginning of this appointment she was raising three children aged six and under as well as a hormonal teenager.  Yet somehow, she kept it all together.  Three near drownings, a broken arm, and severe head trauma which led to a three day coma (yes, that is what's wrong with me) kept her busy during those years.

     The title of my post was a saying that I often heard from her.  As a young child it often puzzled me to hear her say this.  "I am not a what, I am a yes ma'am!"  This was her automatic response when any of her children answered with "what".  It was interchangeable with "huh" as well.  She wasn't a huh, either.


    As a young adult I witnessed my short mother take a crack rock out of woman's hand and stare down the drug dealer who gave it to her.  She was not afraid to stand up for those she loved.

 One thing I am very certain of is that she loved me.  This is a great gift.  Not just the fact that she loved me but that I know  without a doubt she loved me.  She loved me so very much.  I once asked her what her thoughts were on the day I was born.  She told me that all she could think about was how much hair I had and what a beautiful hairline I had.  Really?  My hairline?  Not my dimples or my blue eyes or my adorable button nose but my hairline. 

     She would often call me her little spitfire.  It was not derogatory.  She often told me she loved my strong sense of justice but wished I could channel it into something healthy and effective. 

    
      Perhaps one day I will write more about my mother and the many stories that I have.  But for now I am only emotionally able to just give little snapshots.  The loss of her is so raw at times.  Today is just one of those days.

     If your mother is living, answer her with a  "yes m'aam", pose for a picture with her, kiss her on the cheek, squeeze her real tight, eat your vegetables and tell her you actually like them, splurge and buy the nicer flowers, but most importantly tell her how very much you love her.