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 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.
Beautifully written.
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