Unicorn (Unicorn@Indenial.com)
Sun, 09 May 1999 19:46:40 -0400
"Mothers: Every Year is Their Year"
This is for all the mothers who DIDN'T win Mother of the
Year in 1999. 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 soccer games Friday nights instead
of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked,
"Did you see my goal?" they could say "Of course, I
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 OK honey, Mommy's here."
This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled in the
night and can't find their children.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll
never see. And the mothers who took those babies
and gave them homes.
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, fry a chicken, 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
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.
So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their
children and explained all about making babies. And
for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.
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 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 the 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. So hang in there.
Better luck next year, I'll be rooting for you.
Happy Mother's Day!!!
************************************************************
"Give It To Me In The Morning"
{Get that hankie out - LadyHawke}
"Mommy, look!" cried my daughter, Darla, pointing to a
chicken hawk soaring through the air.
"Uh huh," I murmured, driving, lost in thought about the
tight schedule of my Day.
Disappointment filled her face. "What's the matter,
Sweetheart?" I asked, entirely dense.
"Nothing," my seven-year-old said. The moment was
gone. Near home, we slowed to search for the albino
deer that comes out from behind the thick mass of trees
in the early evening. She was nowhere to be seen.
"Tonight, she has too many things to do," I said.
Dinner, baths and phone calls filled the hours until
bedtime.
"Come on, Darla, time for bed!" She raced past me up
the stairs. Tired, I kissed her on the cheek, said prayers
and tucked her in.
"Mom, I forgot to give you something!" she said. My
patience was gone.
"Give it to me in the morning," I said, but she shook her
head.
"You won't have time in the morning!" she retorted.
"I'll take time," I answered defensively. Sometimes no
matter how hard I tried, time flowed through my fingers
like sand in an hourglass, never enough. Not enough for
her, for my husband, and definitely not enough for me.
She wasn't ready to give up yet. She wrinkled her
freckled little nose in anger and swiped away her
chestnut brown hair.
"No, you won't! It will be just like today when I told you
to look at the hawk. You didn't even listen to what I said."
I was too weary to argue; she hit too close to the truth.
"Good night!" I shut her door with a resounding thud.
Later though, her gray-blue gaze filled my vision as I
thought about how little time we really had until she
was grown and gone.
My husband asked, "Why so glum?" I told him.
"Maybe she's not asleep yet. Why don't you check,"
he said with all the authority of a parent in the right. I
followed his advice, wishing it was my own idea.
I cracked open her door, and the light from the window
spilled over her sleeping form. In her hand I could see
the remains of a crumpled paper. Slowly I opened her
palm to see what the item of our disagreement had been.
Tears filled my eyes. She had torn into small pieces a
big red heart with a poem she had written titled,
"Why I Love My Mother!"
I carefully removed the tattered pieces. Once the puzzle
was put back into place, I read what she had written:
"Why I Love My Mother
Although you're busy, and you work so hard You always
take time to play I love you Mommy because I am the
biggest part of your busy day!"
The words were an arrow straight to the heart. At seven
years old, she had the wisdom of Solomon.
Ten minutes later I carried a tray to her room, with two
cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows and two peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches. When I softly touched her
smooth cheek, I could feel my heart burst with love.
Her thick dark lashes lay like fans against her lids as they
fluttered, awakened from a dreamless sleep, and she
looked at the tray.
"What is that for?" she asked, confused by this late-night
intrusion.
"This is for you, because you are the most important part
of my busy day!"
She smiled and sleepily drank half her cup of chocolate.
Then she drifted back to sleep, not really understanding
how strongly I meant what I said.
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