You’re the reason I have a love/hate relationship with a worn denim-blue sofa.
For many years that sofa was the only piece of furniture in a room designated “the playroom.” Amidst the stuffed animals, puzzles pieces, baby dolls, and matchbox cars, that sofa became the perch from which I parented my young children.
And I hated it. During those early years of my children’s lives, I was too sick to get off that sofa. I curled myself into a fetal position in an attempt to mitigate the pain. The medication I took daily left me weak and exhausted. Every inflamed joint in my body pained me.
So week after week I lay on that sofa as my children played around me. Not much of a playmate, not enough of a parent, I did the only thing I could do. I remained in my children’s proximity, and hoped my young son and daughter knew they were the reason I made it from my bed to that sofa each morning.
And yet, I also have reasons to love that sofa. Over the course of a few years—years punctuated by infusions, surgeries, and an endless array of pills—I was able to slowly heal on that sofa. But the pills alone did not save me, nor did the surgeries. I slowly regained my health while lying on that sofa because you, Mom, gifted me the time and space I needed to heal.
You were also in that small and messy room with us. You played with my children, made sure they were fed and bathed. You drove them to music class and to Tae Kwan Do. You shopped, cooked, and cleaned up. And you did all this while holding down a part-time job, maintaining your own home, and tending to Dad. You did it all because you love your grandchildren. And you did it because you love me.
You did all the things I could not do, and all you expected in return was that I would rest on that worn blue sofa, and allow my wrecked body to become whole again.
And it did. I did. Because of modern medicine. And an old sofa. But mostly because of your loving and selfless gift.
Thank you Mom for everything. I love you and I appreciate you more than you can know.