~This is for all the mothers who DIDN'T win Mother of the Year in 1999.~

All the runners up and all the wannabees. 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 on Friday night instead of watching from cars , so that when their kids asked "Did you see my goal?" 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 Meyer Weiners 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 made 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 old dyes his hair green.
Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and wont 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 who 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 stomachaches,
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!!

-author unknown-


~Mommy, Look!~

"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.

-Author unknown-


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