most wonderful memories with your mom

momma i luv uuuuuuuuuuuuuu

When you were 1 Year old She fed and bathed you
You thanked her by crying all night long.
When you were 2 years old, she taught you to walk.
You thanked her by running away when she called.
When you were 3, she made all your meals with love.
You thanked her by tossing your plate on the floor.
When you were 4, she gave you some crayons.
You thanked her by coloring the dining room table.
When you were 5, she dressed you for the holidays.
You thanked her by plopping into the nearest puddle.
When you were 6, she walked you to school.
You thanked her by screaming, "I'M NOT GOING!"
When you were 7, she bought you a baseball.
You thanked her by throwing it through the next-door-neighbour's window.
When you were 8, she handed you an ice cream.
You thanked her by dripping it all over your lap.
When you were 9, she paid for piano lessons.
You thanked her by never even bothering to practice.
When you were 10, she drove you all day, from soccer to gymnastic to
One birthday party after another.
You thanked her by jumping out of the car and never looking back.
When you were 11, she took you and your friends to the movies.
You thanked her by asking to sit in a different row.
When you were 12, she warned you not to watch certain TV shows.
You thanked her by waiting until she left the house.
When you were 13, she suggested a haircut.
You thanked by telling her she had no taste.
When you were 14, she paid for a month away at summer camp.
You thanked her by forgetting to write a single letter.
When you were 15, she came home from work, looking for a hug.
You thanked her by having your bedroom door locked.
When you were 16, she taught you how to drive her car.
You thanked her by taking it every chance you could.
When you were 17, she was expecting an important call.
You thanked her by being on the phone all night.
When you were 18, she cried at your school graduation.
You thanked her by staying out partying until dawn.
When you were 19, she paid for your college tuition, drove you to campus, carried your bags.
You thanked by saying good-bye outside the dorm so you wouldn't be embarrassed in front of your friends.
When you were 20, she asked whether you were seeing any one.
You thanked by saying "It's none of your business".
When you were 21, she suggested certain careers for your future.
You thanked her by saying "I don't want to be like you".
When you were 22, she hugged at your college graduation.
You thanked her by asking whether she could sponsor for a trip to Europe.
When you were 23, she gave you furniture for your first apartment.
You thanked her by telling your friends it was ugly.
When you were 24, she met your fiancé' and asked your plans for the future.
You thanked by glaring and growling, "Muuhh-there, please!".
When you were 25, she helped to pay for your wedding, and she cried and told you how deeply she loved you.
You thanked her by moving halfway across the country.
When you were 30, she called with some advice on the baby.
You thanked her by telling her, "Things are different now."
When you were 40, she called you to remind you of a relative's birthday.
You thanked her by saying that you were "really busy right now."
When you were 50, she fell ill and needed you to take care of her.
You thanked her by reading about the burden parents become to their children.
And then, one day, she quietly died.
And everything you never did came crashing down like thunder on YOUR HEART.
IF SHE'S STILL AROUND, NEVER FORGET TO LOVE HER MORE THAN EVER.
AND IF SHE'S NOT, REMEMBER HER UNCONDITIONAL LOVE AND PASS IT ON.
MA.............." I LOVE YOU"

Close the door on old, painful memories. Close the door on old hurts, old self rightous unforgiveness. You might take an incident in the past where there was pain and hurt, something that is hard for you to forgive or look at. Ask yourself " How long do I want to hold on to this? How long do I want to suffer because of something that happened in the past?" Now see a stream in front of you and take this old experience, this hurt, this pain this unforgiveness, and put the whole incident in the streamand see it begin to disolve and drift downstreamuntil it totally dissipates and disappears. You do have the ability to let go. You are free. And so it is geetha sridhar mother of two daughters mom of 28 cancer children and cooking for my 28 cancer children every sunday ....

Nan ethanai murai unaku kasdangal thanthalum, Enakaka eppothum santhosam tharukindraval in tamil i wrote for my mom a small quote 

Hi, Mom,

I decided to write you a note for Mother’s Day. I’m sure this seems out of character, as I normally eschew all holidays that don’t involve cake or trees. But this year I looked at the jug of fancy conditioner I had bought you for your Mother’s Day present, and I thought: one day, this conditioner will be all gone. And then you will not remember my affection for you. This fancy conditioner won’t last for a year. It’ll last for a month. Then you’ll have eleven months of wondering if your middle daughter truly appreciates you.

Conditioner is transient. And once it has passed from this world, it’s just . . . gone.

So I tried to think of something more permanent. I considered artwork and furniture and knicks and knacks. However, I know that our idea of interior design differs. You have nice prints and wreathes on the walls. I have rusty metal scissors and twisted license plates hanging on mine.

And what is more permanent than the written word? Nothing.*

*with the possible exception of Gangnam Style

Here we go.

I know I haven’t been the easiest daughter to have. I remember well that I was a small, cranky, sullen, black-hearted, violent child. I pinched my siblings and punched my classmates. I didn’t really eat food. Mostly I ate the same four or five items for weeks on end and then, just as you had stocked the house with these a backlog of these items, I would remove them vocally from my diet. I’m still sorry about that letter the school sent home in third grade. Hey, at least I knew you weren’t starving me, right?

I was not very huggable. I liked things my way. I was a bad child and a worse teen. I had a very particular plan for my life and when I became interested in something, I would obsessively pursue it to the absence of all other things. I cut off all my hair because I knew you didn’t want me to. I swore because you frowned when I did. I street raced so often and got so many speeding tickets that I came within a hair of losing my license. And at no point was I sorry. Also I wore black all the time.

I was just terrible.

But despite my terribleness, I wanted to tell you that I think you did an amazing job. Especially now that I have my own children**. I guess I took it for granted how you always had an art project or a book for me to read or a piano lesson all ready. Until I had Thing 1 and Thing 2, I didn’t realize how much time and consideration it took to prepare something like that every single afternoon. You took all of us to the library nearly every week and let us browse in the stacks for hours. As a kid, I didn’t even think about how you might have other ways you wanted to spend your Saturday. And even though you were allergic to dogs and cats, we had about a billion of them growing up. I remember thinking you were being unfair by drawing the line at rodents. No doubt you said this with the traditional tissue you kept in your pocket — for when the dander of six or seven dogs or cats finally got to you. How crushed we were! HOW ABOUT A LIZARD, MOM? A KOMODO DRAGON?

**At first, I typed “my own kids” there and then I thought . . . no, now that I have goats, that is too unspecific.

I grew up surrounded by all sorts of different art stuffs and books and scratch paper and musical instruments and I just thought that’s how everybody lived.

Man, it takes a billionty hours a week for me to pull off even a quarter of what you did with me and four other siblings. I still don’t really know how you did it. But I didn’t want you to think I didn’t notice. Maybe I didn’t at the time, but I do now. Better late than never, right?

Here’s the most important thing: you never told me I couldn’t be a writer or an artist or a composer. You always made sure I had the tools to learn how to be the best writer and artist and musician I could be. We had our bumps along the way, but really, you were there at every step making sure that I could pursue that dream. Whether it was taking me to the library or setting me up with clay or hurriedly packing my stuff into a car so I could switch to a college with a Music Composition degree two weeks before the semester began . . . and then helping me switch colleges again when I left town after my morning classes six weeks later.

At the time, I thought, of course.

Thanks for making me who I am, Mom.

geetha sridhar, teacher, singer,dancer, mom of 28 cancer kids, social worker for cancer patients