Happy Mother’s Day to All.
FOR ALL THE MOMS…
This is for all the mothers who DIDN’T win Mother of the Year in
2005. All the runners-up and all the wannabes. The mothers too tired
to enter or too busy to care.
This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal
bleachers at football games Friday night instead of watching from cars,
so that when their kids asked, “Did you see my tackle?” they could
say, “Of course, wouldn’t have missed it for the world”…and mean
it.
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick
toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf, laced with Oscar Mayer wieners
and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s okay honey, Mommy’s here.”
This is for all the mothers of Sudan who fled in the night and
can’t find their children.
This is for all the mothers of the victims of the latest school
shooting and the mother of the shooter. For the mothers of the
survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror,
hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew
Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON’T.
What makes a good mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad
hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on
a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you
feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street,
walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that
takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your
hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The need to flee from wherever
you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting,
a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?
I think so.
This is for reading “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year. And
then reading it again…”Just one more time.”
This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in
the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet
like a tired 2-year-old who wants ice cream before dinner.
This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their
shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who
opted for Velcro instead.
For all the mothers who bite their lips–sometimes until they
bleed–when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green. Who lock themselves
in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won’t stop.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in
their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their
purse.
This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their
daughters to sink a jump shot. This is for all mothers whose heads
turn automatically when a little voice calls “Mom?” in a crowd,
even though they know their own offspring are at home.
This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their
children’s graves.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find
the words to reach them. This is for all the mothers who sent their
sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they’d be just
FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an
hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.
This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and
sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working
mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married
mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without.
This is for you all.
today’sTHOT============================
A mother can touch a whole generation just by loving her own child
well.
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