My Momma Angel

I want to tell you a story. It's a story I don't quite remember but it's true nonetheless. In December of 1986 a little baby cried in the middle of the night. The reason didn't matter. He was sick or hungry or dirty or maybe just scared and lonely. But he didn't cry for very long because his mother soon scooped him up and comforted him. I don't know if he was grateful then, I don't know if babies can be grateful. But soon he fell back to sleep. The boy is grateful now. The boy is me. I'd like to thank my mom for all of her acts that went un-thanked.

I love this video. But not because it contains some over-glamorized version of motherhood that modern depictions seem to emphasize. It doesn't gloss over the messy details. Motherhood is dirty and sticky and messy and next to impossible. It's an unpleasant job (when it is even considered a job). In fact, it is often demeaned in our society. Motherhood is sometimes viewed as the antithesis of intelligence and drive. It's been slandered by many as "oppressive" and "demeaning." But I can't help but wonder if motherhood's critics would be willing to say those things to their own mother's faces.

I for one would like to lend my voice in support of mothers on this day we've set aside for doing just that. My momma is an angel. How can one place a value on her life? I can't count the hours she spent cleaning me. There is no way to account for the number of meals she cooked. There is no reckoning the numbers of baby wipes used. Who can quantify the hours and days and years she has spent worrying about my well-being?  How can paltry words suffice to honor the one who gave me life?

Yet I have only this to give: There was a dark night several years ago when I realized the door had been closed on my future family. It was the night I realized that the children I thought I might have were no longer a possibility. I was suffocating in the dark. When I was lost in despair I had only one thought: CALL MOM. And so I called her, and despite it being the middle of the night she answered my call once again. I don't even remember what she said. Maybe it doesn't matter. But what does matter is that she came again to her crying boy's rescue. She wiped my tears and calmed my troubled heart. She fought off the closing despair. Soon I was calm enough to sleep.

All I know is that there is something primal about calling for mom. Instinctually we know somehow that our mothers can help when nothing else can--be it on a muddy battlefield or in a crib. We know it from the moment we are born until the moment we die.

I haven't always been the best son. Never the most respectful or honest. I haven't always been grateful. But I'm grateful now. I will always be your baby boy. I love you. Yes, I will love you until I die.

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