*I remember thinking that as a Mother, I would spend my days bestowing wisdom upon my offspring, offering them my sage advice, teaching them the ways of the world and how to navigate through it safely. How surprising it was then, when it turned out that they were the ones teaching me about life. Oh sure. I’ve taught them proper dinner table etiquette, how to brush their teeth, and the importance of a good scrub in all of the hard to reach crevices during bath time. But their lessons have been far greater in meaning and substance; unconditional love, unyielding patience, true forgiveness, and that dirty little elbows on the dinner table never killed anybody.
*My first Mother’s Day was in May of 2002. Monchichi was two months old and the family decided to meet at a favorite local Chinese restaraunt for dinner. Despite the post-preganancy bulge that stubbornly refused to budge, I dressed up and made sure to take extra care with my hairstyle and makeup. I felt exuberant as we sat at the table, having now become a member of this sacred band of women, all somehow connected to one another that day by the joy that is Motherhood. Sometime during the first course, I heard a loud explosion, and when I turned to look for the source of the startling noise, I realized my eight week old baby had just blown out his diaper up to his neck, in the middle of this very special dinner in this very nice restaraunt. Needless to say my appetite was compromised (which is a rare occurance) and the reality of motherhood bitch slapped me right across my sense of smell. At least my children are consistant though, because s!#%’s been hitting the fan ever since.
*My mother was 31 when she packed up some ratty suitcases and fled communist Poland with her family. The year was 1981, two weeks before Marshall Law. I was four, and my baby sister was barely eight months old. That woman had balls of steel to just pick up and go like that into an unknown future, hoping that it would at least be better than the dismal state of her homeland. She was a woman with a college degree who scrubbed other people’s toilets while she learned to speak English, making sure that 1. the bills were paid and 2. her children had the best juice to drink and the freshest fruit to eat, even if it meant that she was stuck with bread and butter and stale coffee. She worked days, she worked nights, she kept my father afloat when he dipped into despair and wallowed in regret for uprooting his family for a piece of the American dream. We were never hungry, we were never cold, and despite having to endure the humiliation of owning mostly Kmart tennis shoes and garage sale toys, we made it out of our childhood intact and alive,(though the therapy bills are beginning to pile up) mostly because of her. So thanks Mom; for being such a badass.
*I read a quote today, which I think sums up the essence of motherhood quite nicely. So I’m going to pass it along for your enjoyment. ” A mother is a person who, seeing there are only 4 pieces of pie for 5 people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.”** ~Tenneva Jordan
God bless all the mommies out there today.
And God help anyone who tries to come between a mama and her child.
**Unless the pie happens to be chocolate, apple, blueberry, peach, pumpkin, or is even the slightest bit sweet and delicious and I happen to be the mother in question. Then it’s everyone for themselves.