My mom could drive me crazy.
She could be quick to anger; she was prone to logic-defying and confusing outbursts of emotion; she often had very high expectations of herself and those around her; and she could occasionally be too quick with some words or actions, saying or doing things that could be inappropriate or even hurtful without meaning to.
But, as I say these things, I know that I am also describing myself.
So I know, without a doubt, that as crazy as mom drove me, I drove her just as crazy, if not more.
When we would spat, even over the smallest of transgressions — all too often it would really boil down to the fact that we were images of each other, arguing for what we thought was right. Butting heads and pushing each other’s buttons as only the two of us could.
Yet, in spite of how crazy I know I made her, I also know she always loved me completely.
She was my biggest fan, my most ardent supporter, and I knew she was always in my corner. She was generous, caring, and passionate in her belief in me and I knew I could always turn to her when I needed help. No matter our differences, we could always find our ground together and move forward, knowing each other better, and loving each other more.
She gifted me with a deep appreciation for the arts, a love of learning, and a sense of humour. She regularly demonstrated the benefits of forgiveness and selflessness, showed me the value of a spiritual life, and, especially through these last years, was a tremendous example of strength and bravery.
So yeah, my mom drove me crazy. But it was a crazy that I knew, and a crazy that I shared in, and I’m going to miss it.
