As a child, I think I was a mystery to her - and heck, I bet I'm just as enigmatic as an adult. But she always listens to me, if somewhat incredulously, over the things I worry about, live through, deal with.
So many times, after hearing me spill my guts, and offering advice, she'll ask incredulously, "Where did you come from?"
I mean, she knew the mechanics, of course. She was simply marveling at how different I was from her and my father.
Sure, I have her hands. And picked up many of her mannerisms along the way.
Among the things I'm forever grateful for is this: It's my Mom who taught me to read and write when I was two, setting the stage for my career.
A fellow lefty, she showed me the right way to hold my pencil so I was never vexed by the the left-side spirals in a notebook.
Over the years, I know I must have tested every last nerve in her body as she tried in vain to get me to mimic her Palmer-perfect penmanship earned refined during her years of Catholic school education. When done quickly, letting words pour out onto the page, a sheet full of my own writing resembles a ransom note more than lines written by the same person.
Little did she know, she'd created a monster.
As a toddler, I'd come downstairs - every morning for a month - toting a pretend schoolbag, declaring I was on my way to school.
So she threw up her hands and found me a preschool. Which was one of the most creative places I'd ever had the pleasure to spend time in my entire life.
That's another theme with my Mom, too - tapping into creativity. She used to sew a lot, obsessed with tactile textiles and beautiful patterns. These days, she quilts, making color schemes and poring over detailed designs at shows.
I get my obsession over materials from her. With her, it's fabrics for quilting. With me, it's beads and pieces of silver that catch the light.
So thank you, Mom, for all the creative support to do my own thing. Even when it seems unthinkable.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom!
(And if you're a Mom, Happy Mother's Day to you, too!)