Mama

Today is Mother's Day, the day we inundate our mom's with cards and flowers and reminders that we do actually care even though we may act like little brown smelly nuggets the rest of the year.
Personally, as a mother, I loathe the day. I don't want presents or accolades or goodies. I'd just like my kids to stop trying to kill each other and to cease their attempts to break the sound barrier for one day.
That would make me ecstatically happy.
It won't happen, but a girl can dream.
Mother's Day has always served as a reminder for me of the woman I'm descended from.
My own mother, who blessed me with boobs, a butt, tear glands, and a backbone made of steel.
Most of my childhood, my father was ill. Heart problems, surgeries, cancer, diabetes--you name it, he had it. Except pregnancy. That he left alone.
My mom had to raise two children and hold down a job and care for my dad most of my life.
She didn't begrudge her lot in life. She loved Daddy and us for some unknown reason, (what's not to love, right?) so she woke up every morning and put one foot in front of the other to get through the day.
She succeeded and she failed in raising her family the way she wanted. She failed because she couldn't protect us from the reality of a dying father. My brother and I bear the scars and always will.
She succeeded because, despite some bumpy patches, my brother and I are standing firm and raising our families and not huddled in a corner doing crack. (My brother does stand in the corner and scratch his crack, but that's another blog all together.)
I occassionally do hard liquor, yes, but I didn't start that until the heathens came along.
We are a testament to her will and her drive. She dragged us along, shielding us as best she could when the world decided to take a big old hairy dump right in our laps. Helping pick off the pieces when she just couldn't shield us enough.
Daddy always said marrying her was the smartest move he ever made.
Good for him. Lucky for us.
The Man's injury and subsequent surgeries have made me realize exactly how much she did to make our lives as easy as possible. And she made it look easy. (Unlike me, who wants everyone to know how much of a PITA my husband is and how rotten our heathens are, just because I find it funny!)
She's one tough broad. And while I don't want to be her when I grow up, I have learned some valuable lessons watching her survive and thrive and laugh her way through things that most of us would have collapsed under the weight of.
She is a strong and brave woman. Hell, she thinks my kids are sweet!
So here's to Mom.
I'll be by with the perfunctory card later, Mama.