Today is Mother's Day and it is assumed that if I am a good daughter I write about all the qualities I have my mother and I do love her. should start all their sacrifice, for example, giving me life, all I cared for small and nights without sleep and take care of my tears. Or should I say about the wisdom of his advice not less wise or reprimands to be a better person, or to quote the phrase that so far it sounds in my head and I nulamente "you have to save bread for May ..."
should not forget either the time he painted blue hair of the characters he drew for homework, or the "grilled chicken" made me the On my birthday, and when night came to my room to pick up the blanket and tucked me roll again - and was 23 years.
But today, all that mass and timeless memories desordenanda pre-kindergarten and post-teenager that spring from the heart, nothing more I can write about the only image now dominates my mind:
My mother and I sat at the table the patio. She holds my hand, my fingers holding a pencil and a notebook she teaches me to write.
- "First the vowels: A is a ball with its tail, the E gum, I have dot, O is the ball and U as you want."
And we did it 10 times and I feel prepared and happy.
- "Now we will write your name. PAOLA ..." it surprised me. "This is P. Then the A, a ball with his tail, O is the ball, the L a worm and again the A. .."
- "A ball with his tail!"
I cry She laughs. Me too.
"PAOLA. So my name and my name is written," I thought and did not detract in to that simple piece of paper.
Later I went to the nest and with 4 years and learned to write formally, this is "real" as the scholars say. Moreover, the memory of my mother in the yard I had completely lost until recently when in Communication & Assertiveness workshop, the facilitator asked us about the first act of communication that we have memory and wham, there I was with my mother again, writing and seeing my name written on paper first!
That day she made me draw not only the vowels. That day she gave me a great gift, taught me to write. Not only that, in an unconscious act, but full of great love, my mother gave me something that can never take away: my identity.
Since this morning I have not stopped writing my name, Paola. Like, me, no more, no less. Since that day I have not stopped writing, ball at the start and now a blog. Moreover, I see a future full of letters to me and, above all, I am typing. Is it because she was the first to teach me how?
Today I wanted to honor my mother writing a lot about it and have to to make a novel. But this little episode serves almost like a dream-smelling pink candy-from humble tribute to a woman who, among other things, has also been my teacher. Happy ma '!
