Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Category Archives: mother, mom, mother’s day


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The February of my heart.

I don’t own a set of china. Not anymore. When I was a little girl my mom gave me a doll size set of dishes in March for my birthday. She told me about it in February, because she never could keep a gift-secret. She started slowly, displaying the wrapped box. I was in my bedroom, playing with my dolls when she set the box on the bed. “They’re going to love it,” she squealed. I smiled and kept playing. “You know, when they’re hungry or thirsty…” I may have been young, but this was not an indecipherable clue. She exchanged my Baby Malinda with the box, but told me not to shake it, because “the glass would break.” I smiled again, not because I knew what it was, which I did, but simply delighting in how much she loved giving, so much so that it simply burst at the seam of her mouth.

When I opened the present a month later, they were the most beautiful dishes I had ever seen. White with blue and red flowers. A coffee pot. Cups with saucers. Bowls. And plates. They were meant to be displayed. I wanted my entire doll family to be able to see them at all times. I made a small shelf from an Iverson’s shoe box. But how could I make them stand up? I asked my mom for help. Her eyes darted around the house. Questioning. Searching. I knew that she had the answer when her eyes sparkled. She got out the footstool. She hated heights. It made her dizzy. She must really be certain, I thought, for her to risk the spins. She placed the stool in front of the window. I had no idea what she was doing. She pulled a few drapery hooks, randomly, so you couldn’t even see the slight sag. She brought them to the table and pulled the middle tongs. They looked like small easels. We displayed the plates and the cups in her old shoebox. I was February excited for the rest of the year!

There is a slight sag, knowing that I don’t have them anymore. But it’s not noticeable, not when the memories of footstools and drapery hooks shine over the moment. I had such a mother!! This can never be boxed or shelved, but forever carried in the February of my heart.

Her birthday isn’t until July 6th, but it seems fitting to start a little early.

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C’est la fête de ma mère

I didn’t understand it, even then. Older teenagers on the bus, they used to have a response when asked a simple question — “Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.” My brain scrunched up behind my furrowed brow. But isn’t that actually the only time you would need to tell me, I thought. 

This being said, it’s ironic that so many years later, there’s still a little part of my brain that can slip into that very behavior. I know I’m not alone, expecting that everyone would know my every feeling at every moment. It’s embarrassing to even type it. It’s a lesson to keep learning — this sharing of feelings, even when you think they should be so obvious.

They don’t know it’s Mother’s Day. In their defense, it isn’t, not yet here in France, not until the 26th. But my American heart, missing my American mother, knows that it is. It celebrates and hurts at the same time. So I tell you now — It’s my mother’s day! — C’est la fête de ma mère! And doesn’t she deserve two – at least!

Traces of salt slip into my smile. She would have never let me get away with saying something so silly as “If you don’t know…” — not then, and certainly not now. So today I will wear my heart on one sleeve and my mother’s on the other — proudly! You can join me — and once again in two week’s time. (Most likely, even tomorrow.) Happy Mother’s Day!