Today is my mother’s birthday. I want to use these two minutes today to wish her a happy birthday and thank her for shaping me as the person I am.
She didn’t take me hunting or fishing, but she made it possible for my dad to get me out in the woods. She held down the fort while Dad and I were off trying to bring home meat for dinner.
She never complained about our hunting and fishing trips. I think she really looked forward to them, because it meant both the boys of the house would be making messes somewhere else, instead of in her kitchen and living room. It was probably also a heck of a lot quieter at home when Dad and I were out in the woods.
And it didn’t matter if we were gone for a two weeks or just a morning. When we came back in, Mom always had a meal ready for us, a fire going in the fireplace, and hot chocolate and warm cookies for dessert. Depending on how cold it was for our hunt, sometimes we ate the cookies and drank the hot chocolate first. I don’t know how she found the time or energy to do all that, because she worked a full-time job at the same time she was making our house a home.
Dad’s still making messes and asking what’s for dinner. And proving that Mom is certainly a candidate for sainthood, after all these years she hasn’t yet smothered him in his sleep.
Here’s to mothers. All mothers. Do me a favor today and call your mom and tell her thanks for bringing you into this world. Thank her for letting you get out of the house once in a while to wander around in the mud and snow, then tramp all sorts of gunk back into her house. And while you’re at it, thank the mother of your children, too. Or even the mother of your grandchildren. I know the real Mother’s Day isn’t until May, but as far as I’m concerned, every day should be Mother’s Day.
And Mary Margaret Stockton, thanks for everything, and happy birthday.
