Many of you know that my husband is a writer – I’m sharing with you his Mother’s Day blog, hope you enjoy it –
Saturday, May 11, 2013
A Mother’s Song
by Wendel Potter
I’m 60 years old and down through the years I’ve been particularly close to two mothers. One was my own mother. The other is my wife, the mother of my children.
I’ve observed them both in action in the role of motherhood. Their maternal styles differed as much as a lullaby and a dirge.
My wife was born to be a mother. She is that first and foremost.
Motherhood is not a state. It is an art form. My wife is a damn fine artist.
When I look at my two sons I see their mother. They share a triune soul.
She lives for them. Wherever they go in life, they carry her spirit and it is reflected in whatever they do.
When I am proud of my sons, I am proud of their mother as well.
While “I love yous” are encouraged and often heard around our house, the love my wife has for our sons is evident even when unspoken.
Unspoken was generally the case where my mother’s love for her children was concerned. She was the product of a hardscrabble Irish-American farm culture. Even soft-spoken displays of affection were not customary in her family.
It’s no stunning admission when I say that I don’t recall my mother ever telling me, “I love you.”
I’m sure she must have said it at some point when I was very young. And I’m sure I told her the same, as children do.
I know there were times when she was pleased by my actions. For instance, when I was a small boy and we lived in Iowa, I would hike down the railroad tracks and stop along the way to pick cattails from a swamp.
I would return home with those cattails (really nothing more than butt-ugly weeds) and present them to my mother as though they were roses. She would always put them in a purple glass vase and set the horrible arrangement on the dining room table.
She was pleased that her little boy had picked for her what he saw as a bouquet of flowers. She was proud enough to display the damn things for the whole family to see at dinner.
That was how she loved.
She cheered her children on in her heart and we were in her prayers, but she had a difficult time putting praise and encouragement into words that we would have cherished hearing. She sang us a love song without music, with no lyrics.
That was Mom’s style. It was the only way she knew how to sing the song.
My sons are more fortunate than they might realize. While they honor their mom on Mother’s Day, she celebrates every day of the year as Sons’ Day.
She can’t help being a mother. It’s who and what she is.
Her love song has words and music, melody and phrasing, and she sings it with perfect pitch. Our sons will always hear her tune.
Copyright 2013 Wendel Potter