I danced around excitedly on the kitchen floor, pressing in close to my mom. “Is it ready yet?”

“Nearly,” Her head was cocked to one side, glasses sliding to the end of her nose, as she worked to put pin after pin into the brightly polka doted material, that would soon become my Halloween costume.

I had begged to be a clown that year, and – despite my mom’s protestations regarding her ability to sew – she had finally consented. We’d gone to the store together to pick out the pattern and material. I was elated. I can’t even remember now, why I wanted to be a clown, but I do remember how excited I was about my costume. I can remember my mom’s excitement too. It did more than just mirror my own – it was as though her emotions were completely wrapped up in mine. And this is part of the great and magnificent thing that is my mother.

As a little girl, I couldn’t really pinpoint my Mom’s personality. If you’d asked me what she liked I would have probably said something stupid like “flowers”. And she did like flowers, or maybe it was more that flowers reminded me of my Mom, because she was beautiful and delicate and always smelled so good. What I knew of my Mom was that she was always there, that she seemed to exist just for me. My life was happy and good because she was in it. When Christmas rolled around, I would drag my Dad up and down department stores looking at earrings, necklaces, and little glass figurines. None of it ever seemed good enough. Mom would always ask for something simple, something useful, like pantyhose or nail polish – but these things wouldn’t do – I couldn’t give her everyday-junk. She had made my world beautiful and perfect, and I wanted to repay her with a little of the same.

My mom is beautiful, wise, and brilliantly goofy. She has given me a place to grow and gain strength. Her prayers keep me safe. And her voice fills my heart. She nurtures my spirit, and builds my confidence. She's my biggest fan and greatest supporter. She's my best friend.