In the next few days, mothers throughout America, and other places around the globe, will begin receiving myriad messages of thanks, gratitude and love. It’s an ancient ritual, giving a nod to fertility and the continuance of life. In our country, this tradition is traced back to Julia Ward Howe, whose words became the lyrics to the Battle Hymn of the Republic became the rallying theme of the Union during our Civil War.
Yes, sons, daughters, grandchildren and others are scouring the stores to find the right gift, order the sweet-smelling bouquets, zero in on the right trinkets and prepare to offer them at the Altar of Motherhood. We hear in advance from this oddly wonderful sex, Oh, I don’t want or need any of these things. I already have so much!
They cheerfully accept the crude art of their kids, marveling at the intricate, abstract designs of family stick figure holding hands. Their own visages being grotesquely portrayed with weird hair-dos and body shapes which would stun Picasso. The scrawled messages have more misspellings and reversed letters than a hostage note written by the backwoods boys who got whacked in Deliverance.
And for adult children, it’s not much better. The brief notes we write are weak footnotes to the sentimental screed found within the mass-produced greeting cards we buy.
I’ve been around long enough to know what mothers are, more importantly, what they do. They clean up the messes their children make from birth and sometimes into adulthood They wipe snotty noses and other gross places; grimace against projectile vomiting from sour tummies; and listen carefully for cries during the night denoting pain or sadness or fear. Especially when some invisible Boogeyman has invaded a darkened bedroom.
They endure mindless prattle and answer questions Einstein and Oprah could never answer. Their eyes mist up when they hear correct recitations of the ABCs, counting numbers and fill-in dialogue from Dr. Seuss books. For you see, such imagination needs a nudge.
And it never ends. You become an adult, fully prepared to face the big world. Then this, that and the other happens. So often in a discouraging way that bends the spirit.
Then Mom comes along and pulls out a sweet-smelling bucket of hope to revitalize you. And gladly you sip.
She doesn’t give up, even as the years mount and she gets stooped by life’s cruel visitations.
Oh, and by the way – mothers have that extrasensory sense of calling you out with burning looks sending you into the abyss of utter stupidity when being scammed or misled. Or lied to. This unique ability even works over the telephone, texts and email.
Now, I know I’m not foolish enough to believe that all have such happy interactions with our mothers. Certainly, we
cannot all claim that blood type defines who we are in relation to our mothers. It's something far greater than DNA.
But God bless those blessed women whose hands tie, strengthen and then one day release the ties that bind us to childhood.
In such hands is much strength and promise for the future.
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