A few things about my mom:
Her feet are insanely ticklish. Like if you were to even BREATHE on the bottom of her foot, she would jump a mile.
She loves foot rubs. (A hilarious contradiction to the previous item.)
She likes to think like a child—that is to say, she likes to see through the eyes of kids.
She’s playful.
She’s clever.
She’s intelligent.
If you do something embarrassing and she notices you’re embarrassed, she’ll kindly pretend she didn’t see it happen.
She loves to read.
She seeks to understand how our minds work. (People in general.)
She loves cats.
She likes to make up rhyming songs.
She loves children’s literature.
She went to Harvard.
She used to “handle” my morning moods by playing Jon Philip Sousa at top volume. (And a juice box.)
She taught me to read before my kindergarten teacher ever did.
She used to go with my oldest brother to rearrange the letters on people’s nameplates on post. (We were Rabbit Toga.)
She taught three of my seminary years.
She homeschooled me for a few years.
She explained to me the meaning of “magnum opus” by telling me that her children are her magnum opus.
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