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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 me?" 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 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 TV's 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?
This is for all the
mothers that 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 two-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 stomachaches, 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.
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