Why Are You Crying, Mother?

Why are your crying?" he asked his mom. "Because I'm a mother" she told him

"I don't understand," he said

His mom just hugged him and said, "You never will"

Later the little boy asked his father why Mother seemed to cry for no reason. "All mothers cry for no reason" was all his dad could say.

The little boy grew up and became a man, still wondering why mothers cry. So he finally put in a call to God and when God got on the phone the man said "God, why do mothers cry so easily."

God said, "You see son, when I made mothers they had to be special.

I made their shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world, yet gentle enough to give comfort.

I gave them an inner strength to endure childbirth and the rejection that many times comes from their children.

"I gave them a hardiness that allows them to keep going when everyone else gives up, and to take care of their families through sickness and fatigue without complaining.

I gave them the sensitivity to love their children under all circumstances, even when their child has hurt them very badly.

This same sensitivity helps them to make a child's boo-boo feel better and helps them share a teenager's anxieties and fears.

I gave them a tear to shed. It's theirs exclusively to use whenever it is needed. It's their only weakness. It's a tear for mankind".

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 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 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. (editor's note: this line made me sob)!

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 kids 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 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.

SOMEBODY'S MOTHER

The woman was old, ragged and gray Bent with a chill of a winter's day The streets were wet with a recent snow, And the woman's feet were aged and slow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for.

Midst the throng of human beings passed her by Nor heeding a glance of her anxious eye. Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom, school let out. Came the boys like a flock of sheep Hailing the snow piles, wide and deep Past the woman, old and gray Hasten the children on their way Nor offering a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stare. Less the carriage wheels and the horses feet Would prod her on the slippery street At last came one of the merriest troup The gayest laddie of all group. He paused beside her and whispered low I'll help you across if you wish to go. Her aged hand on a strong, young arm she placed And so without hurt or harm, he guided her trembling feet along. Proud that his own were firm and strong, then back again to his friends he went His young heart, happy and well content She's somebody's mother Boys you know for all, she's poor aged and slow And I hope some fellow would lend a hand, To help my mother, you understand, If ever she's old and poor and gray, And her own dear boy is far away. Somebody's mother bowed low, her head in her home that night. And the prayer she said was: God be kind to that noble boy, Who is somebody's son with pride and joy. Author Unknown

MOTHERHOOD - IT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE

We are sitting at lunch when she casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family." "We're taking a survey," she says, half joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"

"It will change your life," I say carefully, keeping my tone neutral.

"I know," she says, "no more sleeping in on the weekend, no more spontaneous vacations..."

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my friend, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in child birth classes.

I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing heal, but that becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be forever vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never read a newspaper again without asking "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash,nevery fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a souffle or her best crystal without a moment's hesitation.

I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for child care, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting and she will think about her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

I want my friend to know that everyday decisions will no longer be routine.

That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the women's at McDonalds will become a major dilemma.

That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.

However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself.

That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years -- not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish his.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor.

My friend's relationship with her husband will change, but not in the ways she thinks.I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is always careful to powder the baby or never hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my friend could sense the bond she'll feel with women throughout history who have tried desperately to stop war and prejudice and drunk driving. I hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to my children's future.

I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike.

I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time.

I want her to taste the joy that is so real, it actually hurts.

My friend's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes.

"You'll never regret it," I say finally.

Then I reach across the table, squeeze my friend's hand, and offer a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings. The blessed gift of God and that of being a Mother.