The irony about mothers is that, while everything — everything — depends on them, we often take them for granted. Without them, our existence wouldn’t merely be meaningless; it simply wouldn’t be. And yet we let them do their magic as if their behind the scenes is total absence: we don’t notice, we don’t think, we don’t thank.
They make our lives possible and we thank them by trying to make their lives impossible.
They pack our afternoon snacks while we’re off doing more important things. All the while, they put off their own “more important things” — playing, of course — for years while wiping our butts, feeding our faces, cleaning our scratches, changing our sheets, and a million other little tediums become, by complete choice, the center of their lives.
They give us life, then give us their lives. They stay up late ironing our clothes and get up early to pack our lunch. They share when they know that sharing is anything but.
And in the midst of it all, the best ones never seem to lose their sense of humor.
I’ve been fortunate regarding mothers in my life. So many mothers, sadly, are unable or unwilling to accept the responsibilities of motherhood (and sadly, the number of men unable or unwilling to accept the responsibilities of fatherhood dwarfs the number of unwilling mothers), and so to be surrounded only by good examples (of both mothers and fathers) has been a blessing. A blessing that I generally take for granted, true, but at least occasionally, I wake up and realize that I haven’t considered the pack of blessings laid on my back in a considerable time.
