Mothers


 This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off
 on metal bleachers at football 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 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 gave 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 car-pools 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?

 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 "Good night, Moon" twice a night
 for a year. And then reading it again. "Just one more time."

 This is for all the mothers 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 children
 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 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.

 "Home is what catches you when you fall - and we all
 fall."

Author Unknown

Graphics by Shawna