Here’s a very personal post.
Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Normally I just get the flowers out the door and maybe give a quick “how ya doin” phone call. It seems other plans were in store for me yesterday.
I love my family. Sure I have been hurt by them sometimes, but they truly are an amazing bunch. My extended family has made me who I am and I never fail to look forward to every time we have to get together. My grandparents on my Dad’s side had a lake house up in the Cariboo on a lake, and nearly every summer, and a couple of winters, we all met up there for fun and adventure. Back just before I met my wife, my grandparents sold that place - they were getting too old to keep it up, and all of my cousins and I weren’t quite in that settled place where we could take over managing for them, and my aunts and uncles weren’t at retirement age yet so they couldn’t either. I found myself driving south along the Yellowhead number 5 past Little Fort, and looked up at the winding road up to the plateau where the lake was, and it was the first time I found myself crying over something I had lost, never to return.
Yesterday, I went to church, and instead of a sermon, there was a series of women, mothers, with different stories to tell and lessons learned. The last one was a woman, much like my mom, who faced the same pressures as my mom, but made the same decision. In the face of Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan, telling them motherhood was worthless and the only value they would ever find for themselves was in a paycheck, they stayed home. Because they loved their children.
That never was a question mark for me. Sure I was spanked on occasion. Sure, I missed the odd meal from my own obstinacy. Sure my mom made me eat my vegetables, and always balanced my every meal (including the Kraft Dinner with celery and hot dogs chopped in to round out the 4 food groups!). But there was never a question in my mind that she didn’t love me. She put nothing before me and my brother and sister. She was there for every sniffle, for every flu, for every cough, for every parent-teacher interview, for every forgotten lunch, and for every skinned knee.
She was there for every broken heart, for every hurt feeling, for every birthday cake, and for every Christmas morning. Because of her sacrifice, we were able to go on vacation whenever Dad could get the time off, and that was actually frequently as he worked shift work - 4 on, 4 off, then 10 days off every 8 cycles, plus scheduled vacation time. We got to go camping and visiting relatives. We used our camper. My mom wasn’t the most rugged outdoorswoman (she slept under a mountain of blankets, electric if she could), but she came along every time.
As I get older, I have been made aware of how rare a thing I had in my childhood. And as I look out upon Canada today I realize that it is becoming rarer still. Now, with people like the Liberal Opposition and “Women’s Groups” claiming that what my mother, who had no training whatsoever, did to us in not placing us in state regulated “eary learning” was child abuse and would result in a future of jailtime, I cannot fathom the disrespect that mothers like mine are facing this year. We need to stand up for mothers. We need to stand up for children. I think all children deserve a mom like mine. I can’t believe that we as a society are seriously condoning any other path for childhood. I can’t believe we are not making it as easy as possible for women to make this choice - to choose to love their children first.
The end of that service was punctuated by a truly heartrending song, sung about a mother and her child. It had my face in my hands, soaked with tears. I now live thousands of kilometers away from my mom, and I miss her every day. I wish she could be in my life more than once or twice a year, to see what my life has become thanks to her, and to enjoy her grandchildren as often as possible. She deserves that much, for her years of love and sacrifice. She deserves to see the results of her handiwork, as much as Leonardo Da Vinci deserved to be able to look up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and appreciate his masterwork. Not that I am a masterwork by any means. But every success I have I can trace back to what my Mom has given me.
When I called my Mom last night, I was determined. So many times I call or she calls and I do not tell her how important she is to me. So many times I do not tell her how much I love her and appreciate who she is and what she has done. This time I did not miss the opportunity. I don’t know how she felt when we hung up the phone - I hope she heard what I was saying. I hope he heard in the voices of her three grandsons who all demanded to speak to her on the phone the voices of another generation of men who will benefit from her love and care.
Thanks Mom.
