Some would say I was spoiled. Others that I never learned the proper ways of the world. But I feel I was given wings.

My mother tells a story of a venture I had when I was very small. Walking, talking, and at the age of “I’ll do it myself.”

We lived then in a second floor apartment above a business street. On the corner a block away was the local mom/pop grocery store. I had walked there often with my mother and dad. I was known and knew the older gentlemen who ran the small, city deli.

As it came about, my mother states, we were in need of a loaf of bread and of course one of the family would have to walk the distance and return with the needed dinner staple.

I, in my independence, stated I would go for the bread. My mother and dad smiled at each other. Both amused with the precociousness of their child. However, when I insisted, my mother thought long and then agreed I could, indeed, do the chore.

Unbeknownst to me, she motioned for my father to follow closely behind and watch. She then opened the window which looked over the street and which offered a view all the way to the deli.She set up her vigil there.

Of all the story the one thing I remember are the stairs of the apartment. For me they presented a problem , both going up and coming down for I had to crawl both ways. My hands could not reach the banister.

Laboriously I descended the stairs and, according to my mother, skipped all the way to the deli. My father following closely . Dodging behind parked cars and trash cans.

Upon reaching the deli I bought the bread and skipped, ever under the watchful eyes of my mother, back to my door and front hallway.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs my mother was peeking over the landing and my father was doing the same at the front door.

It was there I had reached what was probably my first major life obstacle. How to ascend the stairs with the bread.

My father, catching my mothers eye, motioned if he should assist but, again, my mother intervened and shook her head an emphatic , NO.

After several aborted attempts to climb the stairs. Once dragging the bread, another undertaking to carry it on my head. My mother, watching my struggles, saw my expression of triumph when the solution to the problem came to me.

I placed the bread high under my arm and holding it tightly against my body, and with much difficulty, climbed the stairs.

At the top; elated with myself, I greeted my mother and offered the object of my accomplishment, the crushed but still eatible loaf of bread.

What can be the greatest accomplishment of a mothers love? Is it the kiss on the scrape caused by the bicycle wreck , the lullaby sung when the monsters lurk in the dark, or the hand which held ours when crossing a busy street?

It is the wings of freedom and the confidence to fly some mothers, certainly not most, give to their babies leaving the nest.

My mother was one of those.