I simply adore the down-to-earth practicality of Marjorie Pay Hinckley.
I love this story one of her daughters shares:
"When we were young, it was very uncommon to have mothers in the classroom--or anywhere at school. I remember only one day. We were having a program in the lunchroom. Chairs lined the room, and the children sat in them as we waited for the mothers to arrive. I noticed with curious interest as each mother came in and then made her way to sit with her child. The mother who came through the door just before mine was wearing spiked heels and a darling dress and had all of this foofy hair. Yes, she was young and, I thought, beautiful. In fact, she looked like a teenager. As she made her way over to her tap-dancer daughter (of course, I thought), I looked up to see my mother come through the same door. With that instant juxtaposition, I will never forget the flood of security and happiness I felt when I saw her--no foofy hair or spiked heels, not very young or very beautiful, dressed in her typically tidy housedress. There was a warm, comfortable feeling and the thought clear as neon: 'Oh, I'm so glad that my mother looks like a real mother! Whatever would a person do if her only mother wore darling dresses and had painted fingernails?'"
Not to say that there is anything wrong with cute clothes and painted fingernails,
but my take-away is that our families love us for who we are.
They love us in spite of our quirks and sometimes even because of them.
My husband and children know that I look awful in the morning
and I make lame jokes
and I have a bump on my nose
and I make funny faces when I concentrate
and I fall asleep while trying to read stories
and I detest cleaning bathrooms
and I sing off-key.
But, somehow, as unfathomable as it may be, they love me for me.