For my mother

I have this image of my mom at 21-years-old, sitting on the front steps of the house in Naperville, Illinois, listening to a college football game being played nearby. I am growing in her womb. While she already has a hard-working, dedicated husband at this point, she is a bit nostalgic now for the life that I will change so vastly, as babies do. Not so many months ago she was in Superior, Wisconsin, attending the college football games herself. Having met my dad, and in a whirlwind romance, married him eight months later and moved first to Forsyth, Montana, and then shortly afterwards to Naperville, as Dad's job with Burlington Northern transferred them, life has already been transformed quite completely for the both of them.

I am now 31-years-old, and by this point in her life my mom already had three young girls (9, 7 and 5 respectively). She and Dad had also moved the growing family three more times. First to Alliance, Nebraska, where Linds was born, then to St. Louis, Missouri, where Cass was born, and finally to Blaine, Minnesota (no more babies at this point, but they did ponder a 4th to see if they might make Dad a little boy). We are certainly a family of the Midwest, all five of us born in different cities. This was a lot of change to weather for the woman who had lived in the same home her whole life until meeting my dad. But perhaps "weather" isn't the right word for how my mom approaches such challenges. I have no memories of her trudging through these days. I remember only stability and love.

My mom is incredible.

I extend such gratitude towards her for dozens of reasons. One of these is her unending support of me and the life decisions I make. 12 years ago I called home from college, during my sophomore year, saying that I wanted to study abroad the following fall. I planned for and anticipated this first extended trip abroad, and then once the summer before my departure arrived, so too did intense anxiety. Just weeks before I was to fly to Barcelona for four months, I was begging Mom to call Gustavus and see if I could still register for fall classes. I know it took incredible strength for Mom to deny this request and remind me that I had really wanted this experience. She would rather have her eldest stay close to home, yes, but her grit here pushed me to own the decision I had made, leading me to face and conquer my anxiety.

11 years later I call to say that I am considering going abroad again, and not for a mere four months this time. What does Mom do? Makes reservations at the hotel in Waterloo, Iowa for the two of us so that I will not mire through a dozen interviews and a life-changing decision alone.

My mom and I are different women, deeply so, but her love is woven into my very being.

Even though I am 31-years-old and over 3,000 miles away, Mom, it is still you I want when I am sick. It is still you I want to rub my back when a big decision looms on the horizon. It is still you I love to laugh with to the point of tears in airport parking garages as the four Baci women wonder aimlessly looking for the car.

Time and distance will never touch the love I have for you.

She is beautiful always.