This is for all the
mothers who DIDN'T win Mother of the Year in 1999.
All the runners-up and all the wannabes. The mothers
too tired to enter or too busy to care.
This is for all the
mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers
at soccer games Friday night instead of watching from
cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you
see my goal?" they could say "Of course,
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 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? Broadhips?
The ability to nurse a baby, fry a chicken, 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 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 2a.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? I think so.
So this is for all the
mothers who 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 2 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 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 the
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
stomach-aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once
they got there, only to get calls from the school
nurse an 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. Better luck next year, I'll be rooting
for you.
Cindy
Lange-Kubick
Lincoln Journal Star
