Mothers
Every Year is Their Year

 This is for all the mothers
who DIDN'T win
Mother of the Year in 1999.

All the runners-up and all the wannabes.
The mothers who were
too tired to enter
or too busy to care.

This is for all the mothers
who froze their buns off
on metal bleachers
at Friday night soccer games
instead of watching from cars,
so that when their kids asked,
"Did you see my goal?"
they could say
"Of course,
wouldn't have missed it for the world,"
and mean it.

This is for all the mothers
who have sat up all night
with sick toddlers in their arms,
wiping up barf
laced with Oscar Mayer wieners
and cherry Kool-Aid saying,
"It's OK honey, Mommy's here."

This is for all the mothers
of Kosovo who fled in the night
and can't find their children.

This is for the mothers
who gave birth to babies
they'll never see.
And the mothers
who took those babies
and made them homes.

For all the mothers
who run carpools and make cookies
and sew Halloween costumes.

And all the mothers who DON'T.

What makes a good mother anyway?

Is it patience?
Compassion?
Broad hips?
The ability to nurse a baby,
fry a chicken,
and sew a button on a shirt,
all at the same time?

Or is it heart?

Is it the ache you feel
when you watch your son disappear
down the street,
walking to school alone
for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you
from sleep to dread,
from bed to crib at 2 a.m.
to put your hand on the back
of a sleeping baby?

The need to flee from wherever you are
and hug your child when you hear news
of a school shooting,
a fire, a car accident,
a baby dying?

I think so.

So this is for all the mothers
who sat down with their children
and explained all about making babies.
And for all the mothers
who wanted to but just couldn't.

This is for reading
"Goodnight, Moon"
twice a night for a year.
And then reading it again,
"Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers
who mess up.
Who yell at their kids
in the grocery store
and swat them in despair
and stomp their feet
like a tired 2 year old
who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers
who taught their daughters
to tie their shoelaces
before they started school.
And for all the mothers
who opted for Velcro instead.

For all the mothers who bite their lips
-- sometimes until they bleed --
when their 14 year olds
dye their hair green.

Who lock themselves in the bathroom
when babies keep crying
and won't stop.

This is for the mothers
who show up at work
with spit-up in their hair
and milk stains on their blouses
and diapers in their purse.

This is for all the mothers
who teach their sons to cook
and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for all the mothers
whose heads turn automatically
when a little voice calls "Mom?"
in a crowd,
even though they know
their own offspring are at home.

This is for mothers
who put pinwheels and teddy bears
on their children's graves.

This is for mothers
whose children have gone astray,
and who can't find
the words to reach them.

This is for all the mothers
who sent their sons to school
with stomach-aches,
assuring them they'd be just FINE
once they got there,
only to get calls from the school nurse
an hour later
asking them to please pick them up.
Right away.

This is for young mothers
stumbling through diaper changes
and sleep deprivation.
And mature mothers
learning to let go.
For working mothers
and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers
and married mothers.
Mothers with money,
mothers without.

 This is for you!