Mother’s Day is one of life’s emotional kaleidoscopes,
a fixed point that is constantly changing, a simple device viewed
from a thousand different perspectives, a recurring theme in a
field of richly colored, deeply textured, memories.
From generation to generation and from year to year, each Mother’s
Day is a little different, each one a specific marker of time
and place and mood. It is not a day that would slip by,
unnoticed, even without the clamor of Hallmark and FTD.
It is a day of loving arms and stinging tears, a day to remember
what used to be or to long for what should be. It is a slim
volume of tribute in the encyclopedic experience that makes up
motherhood.
Under all the cards, flowers and Sunday buffets, it is a collective
recognition of the love we build our lives upon. The love a mother
gives her children is fundamental to their self-respect and self-confidence.
It colors every other relationship. Children launched into the
world without the warming glow of a mother’s love find a
cold, dark place that never feels quite safe.
We are selected by our mates and chosen by our friends, but we
are handed squalling and messy to mothers, who only hope that
wayward genes and a diet of burgers and fries won’t come
back to haunt them. The first, tiny wail kindles love that
is unending and unshakable. The surprising grasp of a tiny
fist spreads to an enduring squeeze on the heart. A mother’s
careful count of fingers and toes is only the first of a million
times she will seek reassurance that her child is all right.
But, the love that lights her child’s life is built in
moments and hours long after birth. It is layered with nights
of fever, days of coughing, nose bleeds, broken arms, ear aches,
swollen tonsils. It is fueled by fear of evil and accidents,
and by the overwhelming vulnerability of small bodies. It
stretches to cover the hurt of skinned knees and broken hearts.
It is love tempered by the fury of teenage rebellion and the
sweetness of sticky kisses. It is aching fatigue and agonizing
decisions. There are endless nights listening for a cry,
a door, a phone call. Life lets in other people, bullies
and fools with blows that damage body and pride. For every
child that is hurt, there is a mother who feels pain. For
every child that grows up a failure, there is a mother who sees
only her own.
Children grow up, but it doesn’t make them less vulnerable.
Accidents happen. Disease strikes. Marriages end.
Mothers never stop protecting their precious charge. Age
means nothing to a mother. Neither does crime. Mothers
love their children even if they commit murder. And they
will die to save them.
Most mothers start very young. Some even choose the job
after nature has excused them from duty. Some take on the
responsibility where others have left off. The job description
is overwhelming. There is no pay, no days off, no statute
of limitations for mistakes and no early retirement. No
one gets a plaque for doing well. Everyone who has ever
been a child is permitted to criticize – and will.
It is amazing so many women fill the position so well.
The reward is small but profound. It is written in crayon,
paint and pencil. It is found in the profusion of cards,
flowers and phone calls crisscrossing the country as children
of every age say, “I love you, Mom.”
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