The war was the most peaceful period of my life. The window of my bedroom faced southeast. My mother had curtained it, but that had small effect. I always woke up with the first light and, with all the responsibilities of the previous day melted, felt myself rather like the sun, ready to shine and feel joy. Life never seemed so simple and clear and full of possibilities as then. I stuck my feet out under the sheets--I called them Mrs. Left and Mrs. Right--and invented dramatic situations for them in which they discussed the problems of the day. At least Mrs. Right did; she easily showed her feelings, but I didn’t have the same control of Mrs. Left, so she mostly contented herself with nodding agreement. They discussed what Mother and I should do during the day, what Santa Claus should give a fellow for Christmas, and what steps should be taken to brighten the home. There was that little matter of the baby, for instance. Mother and I could never agree about that. Ours was the only house in the neighborhood without a new baby, and Mother said we couldn’t afford one till Father came back from the war because it cost seventeen and six. That showed how foolish she was. The Geneys up the road had a baby, and everyone knew they couldn’t afford seventeen and six. It was probably a cheap baby, and Mother wanted something really good, but I felt she was too hard to please. The Geneys’ baby would have done us fine. Having settled my plans for the day, I got up, put a chair under my window, and lifted the frame high enough to stick out my head. The window overlooked the front gardens of the homes behind ours, and beyond these it looked over a deep valley to the tall, red-brick house up the opposite hillside, which were all still shadow, while those on our side of the valley were all lit up, though with long storage shadows that made them seem unfamiliar, stiff and painted. After that I went into Mother’s room and climbed into the big bed. She woke and I began to tell her of my schemes. By this time, though I never seem to have noticed it, I was freezing in my nightshirt, but I warmed up as I talked until the last frost melted. I fell asleep beside her and woke again only when I heard her below in the kitchen, making breakfast. What did the author think of his mother

A. She was stubborn.
B. She was poor.
C. She was not very intelligent.
D. She did not love him very much.