Happy Mother's Day

When God Made Moms

When the good Lord was creating mothers!!!!!
He was into His sixth day of "overtime when the angel appeared and said,
"You're doing a lot of fiddling around on this one."
AND THE LORD SAID....."Have you read the specs on this order?
She has to be completely washable, but not plastic.
Have 180 moveable parts... all replaceable.
Run on black coffee and leftovers.
Have a lap that disappears when she stands up,
a kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg
to a disappointed love affair, and six pairs of hands."
And the angel shook her head slowly and said,
"Six pairs of hands...no way."
"It is not the hands that are causing me problems," said the Lord,
"It's the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have."
"That's on the standard model?" asked the angel.
THE LORD NODDED....One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks
"What are you kids doing in there?" when she already knows.
Another here in the back of her head that sees what she shouldn't,
but what she has to know;
and of course the ones here in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and
say,
"I understand and I love you", without so much as uttering a word."
"Lord", said the angel touching his sleeve gently, "go to bed, tomorrow...."
"I can't", said the Lord, "I'm so close to creating something so close to myself.
Already I have one who heals herself when she is sick....
can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger,
and can get a nine year old to stand under a shower."
The angel circled the model of a mother very slowly.
"It's too soft", she sighed.
"But tough!" said the Lord excitedly.
You cannot imagine what this mother can do or endure."
"Can it think?"
"Not only can it think, but it can reason and compromise", said the Creator.
Finally the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek.
"There's a leak", she pronounced.
"I told you, you were trying to put too much into this model."
"It's not a leak", said the Lord. "It's a tear".
"What's it for?"
"It's for joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness and pride."
"You're a genius", said the angel.
THE LORD LOOKED SOMBER.....
"BUT I DIDN'T PUT IT THERE"
.
By Erma Bombeck

All that I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother. I
remember my mother's prayers and they have always followed
me. They have clung to me all my life.

--Abraham Lincoln

A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials, heavy and
sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of
prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine,
desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to
us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate
the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.

--Washington Irving

A mother had a slender, small body, but a large heart -- a heart
so large that everybody's grief and everybody's joy found
welcome in it, and hospitable accommodation.

--Mark Twain

The mother loves her child most divinely, not when she
surrounds him with comfort and anticipates his wants, but when
she resolutely holds him to the highest standards and is content
with nothing less than his best.

--Hamilton Wright Mabie

For All Moms

We are sitting at lunch when my daughter casually mentions that she and her
husband are thinking of "starting a family". "We're taking a survey," she says,
half-joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"

"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral. "I know,"
she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous
vacations...."

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to decide what
to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes. I
want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but that
becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will
forever be vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without
asking "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash, every house
fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will
wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter
how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive
level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of "Mom!" will cause her
to drop her best crystal without a moment's hesitation.

I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her
career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange
for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important business
meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use
every ounce of her discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure
her baby is all right.

I want my daughter to know that everyday decisions will no longer be routine.
That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the
women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That right there, in the
midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and
gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester
may be lurking in that restroom.

However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself
constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will
shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself.
That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a
child. That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also
begin to hope for more years - not to accomplish her own dreams, but to
watch her child accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a caesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become
badges of honor. My daughter's relationship with her husband will change,
but not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand how much more you
can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to
play with his child. I think she should know that she will fall in love with him
again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout
history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving. I hope she
will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but become
temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to my children's
future.

I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn
to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is
touching the soft fur of a dog or a cat for the first time. I want her to taste the
joy that is so real, it actually hurts.

My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my
eyes. "You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reach across the table,
squeeze my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer for her, and for me, and
for all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most
wonderful of callings. This blessed gift from God . . . that of being a Mother.

Author Unknown

This is for all the mothers who DIDN'T win Mother of the Year. 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 of the victims of the Colorado shooting, and the mothers of
the murderers. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in
front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from
school, safely.

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? Broad hips?
The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, 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 or
daughter 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 2 a.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 all 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 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 and 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.

?1999 Cindy Lange-Kubick
mailto:clangekubick@journalstar.com
Columnist, Lincoln Journal Star
Lincoln, Nebraska, USA