Somebody's Hero

A few years ago, country singer Jamie O'Neal released a song called "Some Body's Hero." It tells the story of a mother and a daughter, and how the mother is "hero" to her daughter as a young child, and later as a young woman, but eventually the daughter becomes a "hero" to her elderly mother living in a nursing home. It is a little sappy, but it makes me think of the relationship with my own mother, and my relationship with my daughter.

As a young girl, I didn't like my mother very much. Oh, I loved her, but I didn't like her. I felt that she was harder on me, the eldest, overly critical, and not very understanding of what it was like to be young. Typical pre-teen and teen angst. I still remember the one and only time she slapped me in public and in the face. I said she couldn't possibly be my real mother, because my real mother wouldn't be so mean to me (she wouldn't buy me a chocolate bar). One of those times when the brain is frantically trying to shut off the mouth because it knows this will not end well, and fails miserably.

It wasn't until she was diagnosed with breast cancer, when I was 14, that the relationship changed. I still vividly recall Mom telling me that she was going to die, and she was looking to me to raise my brothers and sister. That conversation simultaneously encouraged and terrified me. Encouraged because it was good to hear that my mother trusted me with her most precious possessions, her children. Terrifying because I was 14 and hey, what did I know about child rearing anyway? Fortunately, Mom didn't die then, and by the time she did pass away, we were all grown - and I had kids of my own to deal with.

Early on, I vowed I would no do some of the things my mother did to me to my daughter. To a large extent, I haven't. The result is a big difference in our relationship: my daughter actually likes me. I know she loves me, but she likes who I am, she regards me as a friend. She knows that above all I am her mother, and I will (and do) frequently tell her things she doesn't want to hear, but she likes me too. She likes spending time with me - going to the mall, reading a book, working in the yard, or even just sitting on my lap in a chair on the front porch while we watch the world go by (although she really is getting too big for the lap - we may have to move to the love seat).

This culminated in the receipt of a poem recently in my email (I got her a Gmail address so she can write to a pen pal). I ignored the lack of poetic form and spotty grammar; after all, it's the thought that counts:

hey mom you rock

you always were there for me

you always cuddled with me

and there fore your great!

As you go through life, you will meet many people. Some you will like, many you won't. The vast majority will want something from you, or be irrationally demanding, or even hostile. Some may call you a "hero" for a big accomplishment at work, or doing something that needs to be done when no one else will. But in the end, this is a hollow heroism - a heroism of the moment, brief, fleeting, and easily supplanted by being called a "goat" when something goes wrong.

If you want to see heroism, look around the dinner table at night - at little faces who want nothing more from you than a hug, a kiss, or a cuddle. Nothing more than to know that at that exact moment, they have your attention, your love, and your friendship.

The angst of the teen years beckons - I can see it coming. But I take comfort in the fact that for one shining moment in time, I really am some body's hero.