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For
All
Mothers
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 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 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 made them homes.
For
all the mothers of the victims of the Colorado shooting, and the
mothers of the murderers. 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.
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 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 and 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.
~~~
~By
Cindy Lange-Kubick~ |
