Sometimes when I’m really stressed about money and sad, my mom continuously reminded me that I am “her hero” because of strides I’ve made with my weight loss and all of the supposedly intimidating things I know how to do, or have taught myself how to do. She supports me in my intense love of things like Wilco and my coveted wardrobe items, but she discourages me from making poor life choices (even though she’s never stopped me from making them). She saves things for me from the newspaper’s venting column, or articles that she knows will pique my interest. She knows me so well, she doesn’t really need to ask me what I want for Christmas; she can choose things she thinks I’ll like, and she’ll always be right. She passed onto me her love and deep apprecation for music — good, well-respected, quality music, but she can also admit to things like legitimately liking the Starland Vocal Band’s “Afternoon Delight” in an un-ironic way, because she knows I can appreciate a guilty pleasure as much as she can. She’s more proud of my job than I am, more optomistic about my future than I am, and certainly more positive about my appearance, talents, strengths and abilities than I am. She may not understand that I operate purely on illogical passion, but she accomodates it more than she probably should, and I’m so grateful for that. Nobody snaps sense into me like my mom. Nobody appreciates me for who I am like my mom. Nobody has fostered strength of character in me like my mom has, and continues to. If not for her, I would have succumbed to peer pressure but she taught me that the best way to live one’s life is to focus on what you’re doing, not what other people are doing. All of my best initiatives and attempts at success in life were achieved because first and foremost, she believed in me. In honour of Mother’s Day (despite that it was yesterday), I salute my amazing mother. I am afraid of being a mother myself, because I don’t really know how she did what she did. I don’t think I’d be able to be that unselfish.