Moms deserve thanks

Mother’s Day is coming up quickly. There is little time left to buy a card, a token present and make plans to ensure the women who gave us life know we appreciate everything they have done for us.
I have my card already bought. It is waiting patiently to be addressed and tucked into the mailbox. I know what kind of present I want to get for her and where to get it. She wants petunias to put into the old kettle we used to use for watering the cows.
Letting her know how much she is appreciated will be more of a challenge. How does one thank a woman who has done her best? Granted, my brothers and I didn’t grow up in a household that resembled the ones we saw on television. Nobody would ever accuse our folks of being Ozzie and Harriet. Then again, nobody I knew lived in that kind of home.
We all go into motherhood woefully unprepared. No instruction manuals are issued at the time of birth. There are no classes that demonstrate how to deal with a crying infant when you, yourself, have not slept more than an hour or two at a time in weeks. Nobody tells you how a particular child will react to the taste of carrots or that at some point your son will insist on wearing a Spiderman costume every day until it is in tatters. They will forget to mention your daughter will go through a phase during which she will refuse to leave the house without her crown, or that you will go into a blind panic when said crown is missing.
Sure, people will offer advice. But each mother and each child is unique. What works for one, may or may not, work for another. Our grandmothers raised their children differently than our children raise our grandchildren. When I forgot the pacifier one time, my grandmother wrapped a clean rag around some sugar and gave it to my crying daughter. I can just imagine my now-grown daughter’s reaction if I had done that for one of her kids.
Being a mother is hard work. It is the most difficult thing we will ever do. It is also the most rewarding. There is nothing like seeing your children with their own babies. At some point you will hear your words come out of their mouths. That thing you do without thinking will have imprinted itself on their unconsciousness.
In our family, that often involves plants. My grandmother grew things, both indoors and out. Her house was surrounded by flowers, a huge vegetable garden and acres of crops. My mom has houseplants inside. Outside, she has lilies, roses and other plants she salvaged from Grandma’s farm. I have spent years trying to replicate the bounty of around Grandma’s house. My daughter grows orchids and other exotic things. Granddaughter, Emma, has yet to catch the itch to add to the flora of the planet.
We do this because it is part of how we define ourselves as family. We grow things because our mothers taught us plants belong in the backdrop of our lives.
My grandmother once hauled home a spinning wheel because it reminded her of her own mother. Neither my mother nor I can spin, but we understand the sentiment. Sometimes we need a physical object that reminds us once upon a time we were the most important being in our mom’s life.
Life goes on. We honor our mothers each May. As we get older, we become more and more aware that our days are numbered and we won’t always have a reason to buy a frilly card to tuck into the mail. For now, we still search the aisles for the perfect flat of petunias in an effort to let the most influential woman in our lives know how very precious she truly is.

[[In-content Ad]]