LESSON

Greeting cards.

I loathe them (perhaps loathe is too strong. Let's go with not a huge fan of....)

They speak in rhymes. Who does that?

They are generic. Or gross. Or dumb.

A five dollar piece of folded paper that is supposed to reflect my thoughts, wishes, feelings. Yet rarely does.

Occasionally, I'll be seeking the perfect prose and find it. I'll be taken aback by a verse that is laugh-out-loud funny. 

Lest you think you should never again purchase a card for me, understand that I love receiving cards; opening a brightly colored envelope, reading the sentiments inside, noting words and images selected just for me.

I'm a woman of contradictions. All great rulers are.

It's a greeting-card-sending, flower-delivering, breakfast-in-bed kind of weekend.  A day for celebrating moms. I'm one of the supremely fortunate kids who can still select - and deliver - a greeting card for Mom. Call her, just to hear her voice. Reach for her hand when tears need to flow. 

But a greeting card will never tell Mom how singularly important she is to my kids, my siblings, and me. Kindly indulge me while I give it a shot.

She filled shelves and tabletops with newspapers, magazines, and books; discussed politics, world affairs, and life lessons. I learned to seek answers.

She danced to Count Basie and Bob Seger, blared Percy Faith at bedtime, sang along with Andy Williams. I learned that music is as vital as sunshine.

She sat beside me for hours, twisting cool water from a washcloth, dabbing my heated forehead, cheeks, and neck. I learned compassion.

She sent me outside to play. I learned to listen to birds and wind, to make sense of sensible clouds, and make up stories for those that floated off creatively.  

She let me fight my battles. I learned to duck, or fight back.

She left flowers on friends' doorsteps each May Day, rang the doorbell and dashed. I learned that surprise breeds delight - in giver and receiver. 

She quietly chided me for demanding a goody bag at my birthday party. I learned that I was not the center of the world.

She pulled on a flowered dress and heels, dabbed perfume on her wrists, reached for Dad's hand and snuck out for date nights. I learned that Moms and Dads need some fun, too.

She never yelled at me for sneaking off to the corner store to buy Bubs Daddies, even though the bike was flimsy, the  road was dangerous, and green apple wrappers were tough to hide in an underwear drawer.  I learned independence.

She listened when I told her that the neighborhood bully taunted my friend, and ran all the way down the block to confront him. I learned to stand up for those without a voice.

She set up a blanket tent, and stuck me and my stuffed nose beneath it - inches away from the melting tablespoon of Vicks floating in a steamy bowl of water. I learned that you have to breathe deeply, and endure the stinky stuff, before you'll feel better. 

She traveled with Dad, leaving six kids with a wicked old woman who'd raise an eyebrow and set terrified baby sisters dashing off to hide in closets. I learned to be gentle, and talk away tears.

She lingered beside the sea, and walked miles guided by moon and starlight. I learned to need nature.

She found a church on every vacation that included a Sunday morning away from home. I learned that faith doesn't take a vacation.

She labored creating St. Joseph's Day feasts, holiday extravaganzas, and grandma's specialties. I learned that traditions help a family make -  and keep - memories.

She allowed Captain Crunch and RC Cola only on Fridays, alternate weeks. I learned moderation. Sort of.

She stayed up reading till the wee hours of the morning. I learned that she didn't trust my boyfriend, or anyone who could hurt me.

She stayed up reading till the wee hours of the morning, even after boyfriend was long gone. I learned that those quiet hours were actually the way she nourished soul and mind, undisturbed by kids and commitments.

She served chocolate milk in china tea cups. I learned to make the ordinary special.

She treated friends and neighbors like family, invited uncles and aunts to breakfasts, dinners, holidays. I learned that family - and friends beloved as family - always come first.

She gasped when I first drove her toward the George Washington Bridge- a dozen green highway signs flashing, instructing, demanding our attention. I learned that my experiences would be very different than hers, and being brave was the way to go. 

She was given a death sentence, and swallowed her fears to defy doctors' declarations. I learned to fight and pray and believe, no matter what - because miracles only happen if we believe they can.

She wore pink sequined sneakers and danced at my wedding. I learned to savor joy and celebration, understanding it will be reimagined - and cherished - for a lifetime.

She suffered over beloved friends' illnesses and deaths. I learned to live and love in the moment, because the future comes quickly for some, but not all.

She adored her grandchildren, relished their accomplishments, empathized with their challenges, and mine. Her mantra was always heard, if not obeyed: Don't give up. Be patient. Remember what matters. Be good to yourself.  I learned to swallow my fears, so I could help my children confront their fears. To accept flaws and failures, and work to overcome them.

Pause. This is one long list of love and lessons!

Simply stated: Through every stage of life, Mom makes it all better. 

Brighter. Easier. Manageable. Survivable. 

Like millions of kids on Mother's Day, I'll be thanking God for the gift of my mom's life; for the gift of her love and sacrifice. And wishing I could send her a greeting card that says:

I carry you in my heart, Mom; guided and guarded by your wisdom and selflessness.   

You are a hand that steadies, a voice that advises, a hug that consoles. 

Pure love, poured with abandon.

Lucky, lucky me!

QUING Hereby Decrees: It's Mother's Day. Hug your Mom, and all those you know who are missing Mom.