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“You know, sometimes I really hate Mother’s
Day.”
I’ve heard that
sentiment expressed several times in my life. Once from a colleague
who had, you know, “mother issues.” Once on the 50th
birthday of a dear friend, whose lifelong dream of actually being a
mother had so far eluded her. And once from a brother-in-law whose
Mother’s Day gift to my sister was . . . shall we say, coldly received
(how was he to know that her off-hand comment that she needed a new
ironing board was NOT a hint?).
But yesterday I heard
it from someone who caught me completely off-guard with the comment:
my wife, Anita.
Anita is, in my view,
the consummate mother. From the first time I ever spoke seriously to
her about her dreams and ambitions, I knew that being a mother was not
just a priority to her – it was THE priority. And she is amazingly
good at it, and has been from the moment she found out she was
expecting our first child, about two months after we were married.
She loves her children fiercely, she serves them tirelessly and she
prays for them faithfully.
Which is not to say
that she is a “perfect” mother. To be honest, I’m not sure such a
thing actually exists. Anita makes mistakes, just as we all do, even
when it comes to things about which we care deeply. And Anita cares
deeply about her children and the choices they make in their lives –
perhaps too deeply, sometimes.
That’s why it was a
little surprising to hear her say . . . you know . . . what she said
about Mother’s Day. I mean, she loves being a mother. I know that.
So it naturally follows that she should love Mother’s Day.
Doesn’t it?
“It’s stuff like this,”
she said, responding to the question that must have been clearly in my
eyes. She read from an article in our church newsletter: “All that I
am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother.”
“That’s Abraham
Lincoln,” I said. “But I don’t think he meant anything by it. I mean,
his mother was dead at the time, so technically she really WAS an
angel. Right?”
Anita gave me that look
she gives me when I think I’m being clever but I’m really just being
sort of a dork.
“Of course it was
Abraham Lincoln,” she said. “His wife never would have said anything
like that.”“Well, as I understand it, Mary Todd Lincoln was . . . you
know . . . sort of . . . nuts.”
“This is not about the
Lincolns,” Anita said. “This is about mothers. And mothers aren’t
angels. They aren’t saints. They aren’t heroines. They aren’t
martyrs. They’re just . . . mothers, doing the best they can for their
families.”
“And what’s wrong with
that?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Anita said.
“That’s my point. I love my mother, and I know that she loves me. And
for us, that’s enough. I don’t have to turn her into something that
she isn’t in order to honor her on Mother’s Day.”
I’ve been thinking
about that a lot this week as Mother’s Day approaches. And I’ve
decided that Anita, as usual, is right. The whole “angel mother”
thing is over-rated. I mean, who can relate to that? How much better
to have a flesh and blood mother who is real. Because that’s what
mothers are: regular, ordinary women who are sometimes amazing, and
sometimes not. But right or wrong, angelic or not, they’re doing the
best that they can for their families.
And who can hate
something like that
# # #
Joseph Walker
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