When I was in fourth grade, my mother quit being my mom. Some say what she is doing is important, and I agree, but am I not important too? She tells me it is because we need the money. Bull. My father makes more freaking money then 80% of the world. Yet, she has to work. Don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with a working mom, but there is something wrong with a working mother. I make the distinction between mother and mom to show how far apart we have become. Mom, a much more familiar term, has not been in my vocabulary for a very long time.

It started out simple, a couple late nights and a couple forgotten promises. Before long, I didn't see her anymore. She would work until 10 o'clock at night and leave for work before I even awoke. I wouldn't see her for weeks at a time except on weekends.

Feeling rather confused, I hit puberty with no one to turn to. My sisters, with no mother, started to run amok. Confused and scared, and with only one pamphlet, I had my first period in secret. Pads, tampons, fatigue, cramps, and mood swings were all foreign ideas I had never even heard about. At twelve years of age, I sat in the girls bathroom in my middle school and stared at the blood dripping down my leg thinking I was ill.

In my eighth grade year, things got really bad. My eldest sister turned 18 and thought that made her an adult. She thought she could do what she pleased. What she didn't understand was, she still lived under our parents roof and used their money. It didn't matter. We already basically had no mother so she thought to get rid of mother the rest of the way. What neither of us saw coming, was the sudden attitude change in mother.

Our usual late, lazy, and smiling mother had morphed into a large fire breathing dragon lady. I guess it was from exhaustion and from all the work, but everything she said now had a snap to it. Her face had changed because of a frown that seemed permanently etched onto her once beautiful face. None of us could do anything right, especially the new adult in the house.

As life without a mom continued and I realized something, I have become my own mom. I cooked, cleaned, helped my little brother with homework, and asked everyone how their day was. Maybe some people are just not cut out to be parents. Does that make them bad people? Should I blame my mom for having no maternal instincts? Can I hate the women who has taught me not only to walk and talk, but to write as well? No, even without her maternal instincts, she is my mother and the one I can thank for the love I have found in writing. As my mother slowly becomes less of a mom, I find she has become more of a guide to a new life and a better writer.