PATRICE ADAMS

My mother is my best friend, my first love and so much more. At barely 125 pounds to date, her petite, five foot frame carried me for nine months and endured hours of labor just to bring me into the world. Although I was not her first child — and I would not be her last — on September 12, 1988, her spitting image was born.

As a child I followed my mother everywhere. At times she would become peeved because I wouldn’t give her any space. We were literally inseparable to the point that if she stopped short while walking, I would trip over the back of her feet. I loved the fact that I looked so much like my mother. When family members called me her twin or “little Lelia,” my face would light up, smiling from ear to ear.

During my teenage years the relationship between the two of us grew stronger. Our bond was undeniably special. While all my female friends were having constant arguments with their mothers, we got along great. Sometimes we would stay up all night, lying in her bed and just talking about everything. Those nights would be filled with us talking about our days, sharing secrets, dreams and aspirations, getting advice as well as giving it, crying, hugging, and laughing. When I would tell my friends about this, they would look at me in awe, as if what my mother and I shared was impossible.  

It was as if we never had our differences; we often did, especially on the subject of boys. I always thought she wouldn’t let me date because she did not want me to have a life “It’s not fair,” I would protest, “All of my friends can have boyfriends.”

She always would say I was too young and that she didn’t want me to get hurt. Yet, being young and dumb, I had to see for myself. This is when I realized that mothers are right 99.9% of the time. Relationships were not right for me at that point and my feelings did get hurt. Even though my mother knew she was right, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She was just there for me; she wiped away my tears and gave me words of encouragement. I was so grateful to have her during that time and in times afterwards when I was disappointed at the outcome of a situation.

My mother is not just my love; she is also my hero. When in ninth grade, everyone else did hero projects on sports figures and music icons, my mother was the subject of mine. In my last two years of high school, the relationship between my mother and one grew even closer. I couldn’t let her leave the house in the morning without kissing her on the cheek, hugging her, telling her I loved her and wishing her to be safe. Even though I asserted my independence more in my junior and senior years of high school, I still needed her. As school work, college applications, letters of recommendation, prom and graduation fees and other expenses piled up, she was right there to help me sift through it all. She pushed, encouraged me, kept me calm and supported me both financially and emotionally. Without her guidance, I could never have gotten through all the hard work of those two years.

Today my relationship and love for my mother is ever growing. Although I live on campus and get to see her only on weekends, I talk to her whenever possible. She still is the first person I call for advice. Not only do I love her, but I respect and honor her. All my life I’ve tried to be just like she is, and though I have gotten older, that is not changed.

My mother is strong, intelligent, beautiful, generous, God-fearing, and kind. My mother is my advisor, my friend, my boss, my comforter, and my provider. If, when I have children of my own, I can master the same qualities she possesses, I know I will be a great mom just like her. As I look into the mirror everyday and see her in me, it makes me love her even more.

 

Patrice Adams

CM 117.02

Prof. D. Hairston