Mom

I suppose there’s only one qualification to being a mother. You have to have given birth to a child. In today’s society, we have to be careful with labels. Watch the pronouns, too, while you’re at it. I don’t want to rock the boat filled with the alphabet-centric crew or ruffle any of the latest gender bending, cancel culture feathers out there. I just want to be certain we understand the definition of what it takes to be a mother. You have to be a biological female human being that has brought life into this world. No one else on the planet can do that wondrous act, and they deserve the respect, and awe, of the rest of us. With all of our knowledge, technology, and intelligence, there is no other way to make human beings. Sure, we can test-tube it, mix DNA, save eggs, and implant them into someone else, but there’s only one type of being that can handle the whole process of conception, incubation, and birth: Mother.

It’s a good thing, too. Left to our own devices, men would’ve let humanity die out long ago. No joke. I totally appreciate God’s wisdom and intelligence when he put the onus of childbirth onto women. Men are great at the “hunter-gatherer-provider” thing, but the nurturing instinct is in the woman’s arena. She rules. I’m pretty sure that was His plan, all along. It’s just a division of responsibilities to build a family. It doesn’t mean we don’t have some of each others talents and instincts, but both of the sexes have their own strengths and weaknesses. Teamwork makes the dream work, y’all.

My dad was a great provider and protector. Not all men are good at it, but he was. He taught me hunting, fishing, fixing the car, and how to carry my butt to work, even when I don’t feel like it. He taught me the fundamentals of sports, fair play, and to play to win. He taught me to respect others and to hold my head up, and respect myself. When I fell down, he showed me how to “rub some dirt on it, get over it, and move on. My mom has a different, but equally important, wheelhouse. She made me feel that I was special. No, not “lick the windows while riding the short bus to school in my helmet” special! I mean the “I am good enough just the way I am” special. She encouraged me, held me, and showed me unconditional love. She told me that I could be anything I wanted to be. Except stinky. She made sure I knew the fine arts of personal hygiene. Because, let’s face it, nobody wants to be “stinky kid’s” mom. It’s embarrassing.

When I was seven years old, I acquired an infection in my right eye. I clearly remember realizing it. I was oddly calm about it. I just noticed it. I went and told my mom. “Gee, mom. I can’t see out of this eye.” She thought I was just messing around with her. Then she realized I was serious. I don’t recall her freaking out, but she must have. I’m sure she was scared to death for her child’s sake, but she never let it show. We went to eye doctors, specialists, then a surgeon. The infection, as well as the eye itself, would have to be removed. I still remember being in the hospital. It would’ve been scary, had it not been for my mom. She was there with me. It gave me the feeling that I was alright. I didn’t totally understand what was going on, but just her being there with me comforted me. Hospitals are frightening for adult, much less kids. She made sure I had comic books, toys and stuff to make it as normal a place as she could. She took me for walks down the hall, and generally made sure I wasn’t afraid.

Growing up, I was the bookish, un-athletic, one-eyed, fat kid, with glasses. I was socially awkward. How did I know that EVERY kid is socially awkward? I thought it was just me. Kids teased me. Bullied me. My brother and sister always took up for me and always encouraged me, but, let’s face it: all kids go through those phases. Some overcome their own lack of self-worth when they make it to junior high school and some don’t. I came out of mine…I think it was last week. My mom, however, could always make me feel like I was the best “me” there was. I’m the youngest of her four kids. Her “baby”. Still am. At fifty seven, she still introduces me as “this is Kevin, my baby”. Stop rolling your eyes, Pam, Joe and Mary Ann. (I’m sticking my tongue out at my sisters and brother as I write this).

My mom’s been like that through my entire life. Through every trial, every mistake, every heartache, she has always been there to A. point me to God for the answers to life’s questions; B. to tell me that she loves me and C. that it will be alright, one way, or the other. That’s what moms do. Maybe it’s because we shared a heart beat for nine months. That’s really a unique relationship. A bond forged in the womb that no other human can break, or simulate. I know all moms have this ability, but MY mom does it best. (Note: Opinions expressed in this article are the opinions of the writer. Please do not write letters to the editor expressing your contention that YOUR mom does it best, because you would be wrong). Let me just let you know, mom, that I am grateful to you for all you’ve done. I’m thankful to you for the amazing person you are, and have always been. I wouldn’t be the man I am today, if it weren’t for you. Thanks, mom.

Just for the record, my fellow genetically handicapped males, don’t think I’m relegating dad’s to a lower level of species just because we can’t give birth. We’re special, too. We’re just not “mom” special. So, unless you can create life inside of you, nurture it for nine months and bring it into this world, and spend your entire life in self-less devotion to that life, then stay in your lane. Mow the grass, kill the spiders, and go to work every day. Teach the kid everything you know. Then tell them to “go ask mom.”

Make sure to get your mom whatever she loves this Sunday. Flowers, candy, lunch or maybe even a big hug and a heartfelt “I love you.” She deserves it. Happy Mother’s Day, to all the moms out there, y’all!