Welcome to Happily Ever After Authors salute to Moms.
We all know what moms are and what they've done for us all from our earliest memories. I think until I became a mom, I didn't know the spectrum they're put through. Not just that she was just one person taking care of three kids and a husband, but the emotional dumping ground we used her for inadditon to all the other jobs we held her responsible for. On my family Facebook page, I get posts from my favorite radio stations. One them asks really great questions daily. Yesterday, they asked what experience was most unexpected after we had our first child. Fatigue was the favored response, but you know for this frustrated perfectionists, I found trying to keep my son's to schedules -- so my response was 'to expect the unexpected'. Over the years, I've found this to be true with every aspect of motherhood.
At times, I've often wondered how my mom survived us. How my mother-in-law survived her four sons. How I've survived my four sons. It takes a lot of love, patience and emotional strength. Moms are due more than anyone could possibly give them. If you haven't told her you love her lately, do it now. If you haven't randomingly taken her flowers, don't wait until Mother's Day to do it. One of my sons does this. He'll stop and pick wildflowers and bring them to me for no reason. That's what moms love - knowing they are thought about when it's no special occasion. ~
Bekki Lynn~~~~~~~~~~~~
My mom is due every praise simply for raising all six of us kids during the fifties and sixties, especially given all of our individulistic natures. As a family, we had our rough times and our really good times. I mean it's definitely been a journey of intense learning experiences for all of us, and it continues.
I know my Mom has had her rewards. I also know she's had her severe heartaches. My youngest brother passed away about twelve years ago, but it still seems like yesterday, in a way. In these current times, I wish my siblings lived closer to Mom. I think we would all benefit from what we shared in the past as a family and how we could help each other now.
I love my mother to a depth that is difficult to express. That doesn't mean we always get along, or see eye to eye. However, our hearts know each other, and always will. ~
Savanna Kougar~~~~~~~~~~~~
She Was Organic When Organic Wasn’t Cool—My Mother (by Celia Yeary)
I grew up in the fifties when many convenient products began invading the grocery stores. No longer did a homemaker need to grow or kill everything she cooked, nor did she need to hoard seasonal food in the form of home canning and freezer packages. Some mothers, though, such as mine, would not let go of the feeling that one must store away all the food she possibly could. You never knew when a famine might hit the country. She planted a spring and autumn garden, and while the fresh food tasted wonderful, she still saved every bit of vegetable matter we couldn’t eat and either canned or froze it (we had two huge freezers.) If her garden didn’t produce enough, she drove out to farms where a person could pick a bushel of something, pay for it, and take it home to can or freeze. My little sister and I unwillingly accompanied her to pick string beans, corn, black-eyed peas, and okra. Then at home, we learned how to prepare each and watch the home canning process—when we’d rather be playing outside or reading a library book (no television then).
When I married, Mother visited one day and told me we should go out to old Mr. Peabody’s farm and pick a bushel of black-eyed peas. She informed me this was for my benefit, that I not only would learn how to home can by myself, I’d get to take all the jars of peas home with me. I told her, “No, I don’t think so. I’ll just buy black-eyed peas in a can, so I don’t need to know how to use the canner.” She became very angry with me and said, “One day you’ll regret this, when you’ll need to can, and you won’t know how.” I retorted, “Well, I’m a fast learner. I bet I could figure it out.”
I have regretted that and wished many times I had allowed Mother to teach me one more thing—after all, she’d taught me everything I knew. Now, Mother is in a nursing home and doesn’t know me or my sisters or anyone she ever knew. Maybe she forgave me for being an impertinent daughter. I hope so.
Celia Yeary~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was blessed with a young mom. Only twenty years separate us, where the friends I had as a child lived with the thrity+ year gaps. I was the envy of most, but had no clue why. I mean, a mom is a mom, right?
Wrong.
It didn't dawn on me until later in my life what all the other children saw in my mom. As a youngster, she was outside playing with my brother and me, catch, bike riding, snowball fights even when she hated the snow. She was vibrant and alive. We learned much about everything from my mom, but for me one memory sticks out the most. Her love of music. There was always music on in our house, from The Beatles to The Stones, Queen to Fleetwood Mac with a treasure trove of others to fill the gabs. It didn't matter what the occasion was, housecleaning or parties, there was always music.
As an adult, I've figured out her secret. In music there is joy and youth. Thanks Mom!
~Serena Shay~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's eighteen months since my Mum passed away, and oh, I miss her so much.
She was the Mum who had all the answers, or so it seemed. She was the ‘how do I do....’ and the ‘what’s the best way to....’ She knew the secret ingredient, the best scone recipe, the reason my cakes dropped in the middle and the trick to fix it. And no matter how closely I followed the recipe, nothing I did ever tasted the way she made it. She knew the best cure for this, the medicine for that, and when to quit fighting whatever it was and retire to bed. She was the quiet advice, the reassurance, the comfort. She was the Mum who dispensed baby advice when I was at my new-mum wits’ end, and she was always right. And when my son became ill, she cried - because if I could have taken that from him and borne it myself, she would have taken it double and borne it for the two of us.
She was the book I might find useful, she was the local newspaper clipping, she was the keeper of my memories, she was the little bit of cash in the post 'just to tide you over.' She was the anchor, the tether, the knot that loosened gently over the years until it was time to set me free and watch me drift, bump, get a little damaged, till I learned how to fix stuff and fly on my own. She knew moving 500 miles from home was something I needed to do, was the only thing I should do. She didn’t cry, never said she’d miss me, never held me back, but let me go. And I know she cried quietly, alone, away from me, knowing that any doubt seeded in my mind might have pulled me away from the path I needed to take. I know she did this because now I’m a Mum too, and I know I would do the same. She taught me how to do that, just because she was there.
She was the Mum who urged me not to give up when the company I worked for pulled my job from under my feet and refused me compensation. She not only stood by my decision to fight, but was my strongest supporter. She cheered more than anyone when I won my case, because guess what? My Mum had known my worth better than I had.
In the last few years, she couldn’t hear so well. Face to face communications were hard enough, and telephone conversations were long gone. Her memory wasn’t what it was, and she’d get confused, repeat herself, ask the same questions over and over. She'd tell the same story she’d told five minutes before, and five minutes before that. It became more difficult to ask her a question – either she simply couldn’t hear, or she’d begin an answer and right away lose her already frayed strand of thought. She’d confuse one grandchild with another, swap their names at random, forget who she’d seen and when, who'd done what, who was who. In the end, all you could do was smile and pretend you were hearing a story worn through from the 100th time of telling for the first time, and react accordingly. Each time I left it broke my heart because it might have been the last time I’d see her.
Then it was the last time, and suddenly - oh, so suddenly - she wasn't there any more. I remember opening windows the morning she died, though I'm still not sure exactly why. Something to do with letting something out and letting something else in. A part of her had gone forever, but some part of her that hadn’t been there before moved into me, and it will always be there.
I’m not used to it. I'm not used to not being able to ask her things, to share things with her. I'm not used to not being able to pick up the phone and tell her our news. I can't show her the photos of her grandson in his karate uniform, her grand-daughter's first stage show, and that's tough. But I do have mementos and memories, and all the stories she told me as a child to tell to my children in turn. I guess now, that's what counts. I miss her, but I'm so glad she was here for a while.
I love you, Mum. Always will. Happy Mothers' Day.
Jane RichardsonHAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!
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