An Open Letter: Dear Mom, Thank you.

Dear Mom,

Thank you. It isn’t enough, but it’s all I have. I’m only 23, but I know that I’ve already gone through a lot of different stages of loving you. First, I depended on you for feeding me, then for dressing and driving me, then for putting bandaids on scuffed knees. (Did I ever learn my lesson about rollerblading without knee pads?) And then I went through a time where I didn’t show my love very well, when I talked back a lot and told you that my eyeliner looked fine (even though it most definitely did not), when I couldn’t admit that you were right, when I was angry at you for passing down some rather womanly genetics that kicked in before most other girls my age. And then I went to college and began to realize that I didn’t need you to feed me (though I did appreciate the grocery money), or dress me, or drive me. But that’s when I began to love you the most because the love you showed me wasn’t found in the necessities of life; it was in the way you listened to me at any time of day, the way you hugged me extra tight whenever I came home from IU, the way you drove to Bloomington for every single choir concert, opera performance, and recital. And that is love I can never repay. When you get old and need me to cook for you, help you get dressed, or drive you somewhere, I can do that. But I can’t ever repay you for the million other things you’ve done for me in my life and will continue to do as I grow up (because yes, I am still growing up).

Mom, I have to be honest. I’m really scared about the next phase of loving you because it will be from a distance, and not one that is driveable twice in one day like IU was. New York City is equal parts terrifying and exciting, but it’s not the casting directors and 90 second auditions I’m scared about. I think I’m most scared about the life I’m leaving behind, and that life is something you are such a vital part of. I sincerely hope that my career prevents me from raising my family back in Indiana, which can sound terrible, but because you understand how badly I want this, you know exactly what I mean. And if I am raising a family in New York City, then how on earth can I be a mom like you (only much taller and with a totally different face)? I know there are things I can do, tangible things, to be like you (because I know that cheese puffs and grapes really are the best snacks at the pool) but it’s the things of the heart that I’m worried about replicating. I don’t know how you and dad raised two very independent women. I don’t know how you raised two girls who never went through a rebellious phase. I don’t know how you taught us to be confident, give our best at all times, or understand that we can do anything we set our minds to. Seriously… how did you do that?

But see, here’s the thing with New York City. Even though you won’t be physically in the city, you’ll always be there. You’re in the confidence I have because you gave it to me. You’re in the voice I use because you were always the first one to listen. You’re in the outfit I’ll wear at an audition because you taught me how to dress myself elegantly and always with a touch of class (and bright colors). You’re in the prayers I pray every day because you raised me in the Catholic Church. You’re in everything I am and do because you have been such a vital part of making me the woman I am today. Dad always jokes that we think out of the same head, and I couldn’t be more grateful to share a head with you. I was trying to think of a few other things to thank you for in this letter, so I composed a short list of those things. Thank you for: 23 years of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, a brightly-painted home, your love of Barbies, late-night chats when we should both be asleep, birthday parties with homemade cakes (or chocolate cream pies), flowers after performances, haircuts (even though you always cut my bangs too short), leg rubs when I had severe growing pains, scrambled eggs, spoons covered in brownie batter, fabulous pigtails (with matching scrunchies), and the knowledge that an outfit is never complete without accessories. Mom, you’re the best. And I love you more than you will ever know. Happy Mother’s Day.

Your (sometimes darling) daughter,

Jessamyn