As I write this, it’s mid-afternoon on Sunday, May 11, 2008, Mother’s Day in the U.S.
I believe that the important mothers in my life know what they mean to me, and how I feel about them:
My own mother, failing rapidly, but with her chin up, due to her illness. Her family wonders whether there’s even one more Mother’s Day in her.
My dear mother-in-law, about to be 87 years old, mostly healthy and ever very precious to us.
My lovely Mrs. MUDGE, who certainly deserved better than me, but loves me anyway, who raised three great children.
Our daughter, fighting her own battle against a pernicious auto-immune disease far away in suburban Los Angeles, nurturing mother to our beautiful grandson and granddaughter.
My sister and my various sisters-in-law: very loving mothers to our nephews and nieces. My wife’s special cousin, a wonderful parent, whose husband is my best friend in the world.
The women I work for, and with, and near, who, as is true of all of the working age mothers on my list, somehow juggle the impossible responsibilities of motherhood while maintaining demanding careers.
Yes, Mother’s Day is one of those cynical constructs, benefiting florists and greenhouses, Hallmark and the jewelry industry, and the restaurant business nationwide.
That doesn’t make it any less appropriate to observe the occasion.
If you’re fortunate to have mothers in your life, take the opportunity while you can to tell them how much you love and appreciate them.
Every day wouldn’t be too often.
It’s it for now. Thanks,