When I was 3 or 4 years old, my mom taught me how to read. She supported me sitting in front of Sesame Street, sometimes twice a day, to begin my formal education. She helped me practice my letters, and she had some pretty memorable methods to help me learn to write properly.

We lived in Jacksonville Beach before heading to Guam, and Mom bought me educational toys and books, and I pretended magazine inserts were papers for school. And I put those inserts in a crocheted pink and purple purse with braided yarn for a drawstring handle and pretended to be going to school. I also notified my mother often about the elephant in my room. Whether it was the same as Snuffleupagus, I don't know. How was I supposed to know? He was invisible at that time. All I knew is that he was in there. In my room. Sometimes he sat down to tea with me.

My very first day of kindergarten in Guam, my mom rode the bus with me. The bus stop was just a little bit down the hill from where we lived. She wanted to make sure I got to school safely, she wanted to register me, and Dad probably needed the car that day.

When I was not quite 6 years old, my baby brother was born. I knew I was going to have a brother, and Mom knew how close we were going to be. She's had strong spiritual moments pertaining to Frank especially as a baby, regarding his safety. I wanted those moments, too.

In first grade, I peed my pants in class. The teacher said not to raise your hand while she was talking. And one day she just kept talking, and I just couldn't hold it any more. I didn't explain this to my mother until well into adulthood. I'm sure up until that point she thought I wet myself just for fun.

When I was in 2nd grade, my mom encouraged me in my very first ever spelling bee. It was a written test, and I remember winning on the word yacht. Seven years old. Mom felt proud, and she should have because she knew the intrinsic value of Sesame Street.

My first day in of school in Key West as a 3rd grader, I got lost on the way home. I got off at the wrong bus stop. The police searched for me. They took me to that cul de sac somewhere in one of the military neighborhoods and I ran straight for my mom.

In fourth grade, mom helped me read lines for my very first big Christmas play. I had a leading role. She helped me memorize my part. She also supported me playing the recorder and her teaching me attention to detail helped some of my art from art class get displayed in the local museum. Nine years old.

I also lied about doing my homework once in fourth grade. I wanted to go outside to play, which I did. Before the end of the weekend, I confessed my lie. I do not remember the consequences of my actions to this day. And no, my mom did not tell me to say that.

My mom continued supporting me through school and church and extra-curricular activities. She laid down the law at home, where chores and homework were priorities. 

Once I did really poorly on a math assignment in 5th or 6th grade. I lived in Middleburg then. All over the paper were all sorts of red marks, along with the teacher's comment, "What happened?" A big knot formed in my stomach, and I knew - I just KNEW - my parents would kill me. I did what anyone would do and hid my homework somewhere in my room. But then Mom did what any mom would do and went through my stuff. She asked me about the assignment, and she sounded disappointed, and I felt so bad for the bad grade and feeling like having to hide it that I didn't know what to say, except to declare in all my frustration that I HATED SCHOOL. Which I didn't, but Mom totally understood, and she gave me a big hug.

Mom still gives me big hugs.

Once I told my Mom that my life had taken a turn of self-destruction and I was not slowing down on the downward spiral. She told me I'd have to give up my kids to my loser, ex-dancer ex-husband if I didn't straighten up. Just kidding. But, I did tell her a few years ago that I had been drinking, and she looked at me the way moms look at their children, with that look - just like that, if a facial expression could have italics - and said simply, "May, don't do that." So, I didn't do that.

Without fail, before my mom and I hang up from a phone conversation, she tells me to be careful. I mean, occasionally there's that part about wanting grandkids and the part about asking when I get to see her next or when I'm finally going to apply for naturalization, but always, she calls me her baby girl and tells me she loves me and to be careful. This woman, who knows the value of hard work and sacrifice and loving her children with every fiber of her being, and with that love overflowing from her pure heart, she always remembers.

This woman, who's given up so much, worked so hard so that I could have a good life in this blessed country, who's always accepted my friends and was always open to my passions, has taught me to stay close to God or find him whenever I may stray from the path, deserves my willing and enthusiastic compliance when she tells me what to do. So I do it, because I love my mom. I do it, because she understands the value of work and diligence and education. She gave me Sesame Street. She's not perfect, but who is? She's the most wonderful woman, such a beautiful woman, the best mom anyone could ever ask or hope for, and I can't imagine my life without her guiding me through it. So, I do it. I do what she says: I am careful. I love you so, so much, Mama. Happy Mothers' Day.