My mother completely dedicated her entire life to her three children. My father had a more practical parenting style--get good grades so you can get into a good university so you can get a good job so you can have a good life. And he's not wrong, necessarily. Those are really, really important goals to instill in your children. But my mom, she taught me how to find the thing I love most in the world and make a career out of it.
If I went to my mom today and told her I was moving to Antarctica to study polar bears in the ice caps, and I was serious about it, she'd support me. When I told her I wanted to go to Uganda when I was a junior in high school, I bet she felt that would be the same as moving to Antarctica to live in an igloo. We really knew nothing about Uganda at that time, nor how safe it would be for a teen girl. She didn't say yes, but she didn't say no.
I bet you would assume that I had to spend days and days begging my mom to allow me to go. I really don't remember it that way. I don't remember asking her about it more than a few times. I think that what I had asked my mom, the weight of that question, only needed to be asked once. Mom, can I please go to Uganda? Knowing my mom and knowing how much my mom loves me, she wouldn't be happy saying no to that. Because that was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that, no matter how scary, she would never take away from me. She's a super hero.
It gets better. My dad did not want to send his 17 year old daughter to Africa. It wasn't safe, it was too far, I'd get sick, it's expensive, I can't call home, I'm too young, etc. Because I wasn't 18 and my parents shared joint custody, I needed both of their written consent to leave the country alone. My father wouldn't allow it. So what did my mom do?
She bought two tickets.
Now, if you know my mom, you're as shocked to read this as I was. She was going to sleep in a sleeping bag?! I have lived 23 years without even seeing my mother's hair wet. She's the kind of mom that makes you wear socks on hotel carpet and never, ever touches the bedspread. I still cannot believe, to this day, that my mother agreed to go to Uganda with me, having absolutely no prior knowledge or understanding of what she was getting herself into, purely because I wanted to go.
I won't lie and say that it was a really, really easy experience. It was our first experience, so it was a learning experience. We over-packed and packed too cautiously, but we didn't know what we were going to need. My mom thought of everything from garbage bags to baby wipes for impromptu bathing to a pharmacy of over-the-counter meds and the infamous Z-packs.
I have to tell you, she was a champion. Anything the trip threw at us, she took care of. The (very subtle) earthquake that woke up the children in the middle of the night. The one-lane but two-way traffic mud roads wrapping around mountainsides that were more than terrifying (these are now beautifully paved, wide roads!) The centipedes and salamanders in our beds. The "spa" she created out of a plastic lawn chair to shampoo and rinse all of our hair. She made all of the girls feel so much safer because she was there with us.
While we were staying in Mbarara the children were in awe of my mother. Maybe it was her enormous blonde hair or her freshly French manicures nails. They had never seen a white lady like my mother. They called her Princess and treated her as one. They wanted to touch her hair. When food was ready for eating we could not eat until Princess was at her seat at the head of the table. She was so, so loved. The house mamas still ask about my mother every time I see them. The children, now six years older, have never forgotten her name. How is Kim? And where is Kim? Is Kim you're mother? When will Kim come to me again? I pray for Kim.
I hope that my mom thinks of that trip as one of the best experiences of her life. She made girlfriends and exchanged addresses. She held babies and held hands. She wiped noses and did construction work. She got down on her knees in the dirt and planted trees. She (a thirty-five year vegetarian) watched a cow get slaughtered for a community event. She visited Gilbert and loved on him as if he was her own son.
There was one thing that my mother could not handle in Uganda. One thing that was very difficult for her. It was the suffering we saw in some of the women's faces. In some of the children along the roads. I could see the expressions on her face change as we passed people along the roads. I could see the tears welling in her eyes so often.
In the cities, young children beg for money. It is frowned upon (And for some good reasons. For example, to teach children the importance of schooling and earning money instead of learning to rely on begging and the streets as a form of living where they are not safe and learn other bad habits), but to my mother that was a child. She can not say no to a child in need. I knew what thoughts were running through her head because they were running through mine. Where is her mother? Where does she live? We need to buy her food. And shoes. And a new dress. And give her a bath and take her to a clinic for a check-up. We need to find her parents or a social worker or find an orphanage that can take her in. She needs a jacket, it's getting cold. Why does she have a cut on her head? Where did she come from? What is your name? How old are you? How long have you been this way? Who is supposed to be watching you? What is her story? I knew what she was thinking because I was thinking it too: This would never happen in America. And we felt so defeated.
My mother cared deeply for all those tiny faces. But she also had a soft spot for all of the women. All of those beautiful, hard-working mothers. I think my mother loved the women because she saw herself in them. She was a mother too. And she couldn't imagine how hard it must be for some mothers in the world. Mothers who have dedicated their entire lives to feeding and clothing their children. Women who gaze into the tiny faces, the faces that they see parts of themselves in, and think: What will his future be? Am I doing a good job? Women who have been left to do it all alone. When I think about how similar they are, how very, very similar they are, it makes me realize how very important each and every one of the world's mothers are.
I sure got lucky with mine.
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