It seems to me there has been more buzz about Mother’s Day this year.
(It’s possible that this is a personal observation based on my own prejudices or mood, but, hey, maybe I’m right.)
It’s certainly not because this is the first Mother’s day that being a mother has some special meaning.
I’ve been a grateful mother since a bright, hot August day in 1978.
It’s certainly not that I feel like some great, recent milestone of mothering brilliance in the last few days. My role in active mothering to my children has long ceased.
I say that, but the truth is that once a mother, always a mother. We might not direct our children’s lives for the whole of it, but our heart certainly participates in every success and failure they have from the moment they are born until, well forever.
I remember thinking when each of mine were born, that I didn’t know who they were. My love for each of them wasn’t based on anything other than they were born of my body. Now that I know each of them I could not love them more if I had been designing their quirks and talents.
Perhaps the buzz I feel about Mother’s Day is because I know so many women who are new mothers or old mothers or substitute mothers or mothers in law whose hearts join with mine in missing their children or sharing their children or worrying over their children. Strange as it may seem, because of social media, I have come to know so many of these women, ageless in what their hearts seek for their children. It’s illustrated, now more than ever, just how important it is to be loved. And thank God that most of us know intimately how deep their mother’s love goes for them.
To my mother, Doris Jones Huddle, a woman whom I admire, love, share companionship, argue with, am constantly charmed by her spunk, activity, and personal drive, the one who I have shared a mother’s heart in loss and triumph, one who I pray with, I love you with all my heart.
I know, I know we look alike, but that’s as far as resemblance goes.
