Celebrate moms!

No Charge

My little boy came into the kitchen this evening while I was fixing supper. And he handed me a piece of paper he’d been writing on. So, after wiping my hands on my apron, I read it, and this is what it said:

For mowing the grass, $5
For making my own bed this week, $1
For going to the store $.50
For playing with baby brother while you went shopping, $.25
For taking out the trash, $1
For getting a good report card, $5
And for raking the yard, $2

Well, I looked at him standing there expectantly, and a thousand memories flashed through my mind. So, I picked up the paper, and turning it over, this is what I wrote:

For the nine months I carried you, growing inside me, No Charge
For the nights I sat up with you, doctored you, prayed for you, No Charge
For the time and the tears, and the cost through the years, No Charge
For the nights filled with dread, and the worries ahead, No Charge
For advice and the knowledge, and the cost of your college, No Charge
For the toys, food and clothes, and for wiping your nose, No Charge
Son, when you add it all up, the full cost of my love is No Charge

Well, when he finished reading, he had great big tears in his eyes. And he looked up at me and he said, “Mama, I sure do love you.” Then he took the pen and in great big letters he wrote, PAID IN FULL.

Shirley Ceasar

Two more aisles . . .

A man observed a woman in the grocery store with a three year old girl in her basket. As they passed the cookie section, the little girl asked for cookies and her mother told her no. The little girl immediately began to whine and fuss, and the mother said quietly, “Now Monica, we just have half of the aisles left to go through; don’t be upset. It won’t be long.”

Soon they came to the candy aisle, and the little girl began to shout for candy. And when told she couldn’t have any, began to cry. The mother said, “There, there, Monica, don’t cry—only two more aisles to go, and then we’ll be checking out.”

When they got to the check-out stand, the little girls immediately began to clamor for gum and burst into a terrible tantrum upon discovering there’d be no gum purchased. The mother patiently said, “Monica, we’ll be through this check out stand in 5 minutes and then you can go home and have a nice nap.”

The man followed them out to the parking lot and stopped the woman to compliment her. “I couldn’t help noticing how patient you were with little Monica,” he began. Whereupon the mother said, “I’m Monica . . . . . my little girl’s name is Tammy.”

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Meyer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s OK honey, Mommy’s here.” when they 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.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON’T.

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at football or soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, “Did you see me?” they could say, “Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it for the World,” and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet like a tired 2-year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

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. For all the mothers who read “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year. And then read it again. “Just one more time.”

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead. 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 all the mothers who sent their kids 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 mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them. For all the mothers who bite their lips sometimes until they bleed—when their 14 -year olds dye their hair green.

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 fire, a car accident, a child dying? For all the mothers of the victims of all these school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting. 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.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children’s graves. 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.

Author Unknown

She’s fixer of sinks
and drier of tears
Anxious, yet valiant
allayer of fears.

She works a full day
Commutes home, and then
She works another
full-time job, again.

She’s master accountant
And counselor, too
She sets aside worries
to listen to you.

There’s laundry and cooking
and cleaning to do.
Homework, then bathtime
A story or two.

She’s finder of toys
And righter of wrongs.
She’s busy. She’s tired.
She’s lonely. She’s strong.

When the day is done,
The kids safely in bed,
No energy’s left
for the thoughts in her head.

She turns them all off
along with the lights.
Crawls under covers –
Gives in to the night.

Before the rise of the sun
She be up and back to it.
There’s no other option
No one else to do it.

If you, too, know this woman
(she goes by many names)
Applaud her, she belongs to
no ascribed hall of fame.

But a tacit sisterhood,
Arduous like no other,
Of extraordinary women
Also know as Single Mothers.

Written by Tamara Sue Appelman, Butyoudontlooksick.com, © 2006

IF I had my child to raise all over again,

I’d build self-esteem first, and the house later.

I’d finger paint more, and point the finger less.

I would do less correcting and more connecting.

I’d take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes.

I would care to know less and know to care more.

I’d take more hikes and fly more kites.

I’d stop playing serious, and seriously play.

I would run through more fields and gaze at more stars,

I’d do more hugging and less tugging.

I’d see the oak tree in the acorn more often,

I would be firm less often, and affirm much more.

I’d model less about the love of power,

And more about the power of love.

—Diane Loomans

“A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.”
-Tenneva Jordan

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtNGFh-dCe0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6P2w5GkXmU