Happy Mother's Day
A
Mother is more than a memory. She is a living presence.
Your
Mother is always with you.... She's the whisper of the leaves as you walk down
the street; she's the smell of bleach in your freshly laundered socks; she's the
cool hand on your brow when you're not well. Your Mother lives inside your
laughter. And she's crystallized in every tear drop. She's the place you came
from, your first home; and she's the map you follow with every step you take.
She's
your first love and your first heartbreak, and nothing on earth can separate
you.
Not
time, not space………….not even death!
To one who bears
the sweetest name
and
adds a luster to the same.
To
one who shares my joys when I am glad.
To
one who cheers when I am sad.
The
greatest friend I ever had.
Long
life to her for there's no other.
can
take the place of my dear Mother.
Mother's Day has been a national holiday since 1911 and is celebrated each year on the second Sunday in May.
A Mother is not a person to lean on but a person to make leaning unnecessary.
This one is rather sad but I think quite a few mothers deserve it.
Dear Mr. Hallmark
I am writing to you from heaven, and though it must appear
A rather strange idea, I see everything from here.
I just popped in to visit, your stores to find a card,
A card of love for my mother, as this day for her is hard.
There must be some mistake I thought, every card you could imagine
Except I could not find a card, from a child who lives in heaven.
She is still a mother too, no matter where I reside
I had to leave, she understands, but oh the tears she’s cried.
I thought that if I wrote you, that you would come to know
That though I live in heaven now, I still love my mother so.
She talks with me, and dreams with me; we still share laughter too,
Memories are our way of speaking now, would you see what you could do?
My mother carries me in her heart, her tears she hides from sight.
She writes poems to honor me, sometimes far into the night
She plants flowers in my garden, there, my living memory dwells
She writes to other grieving parents, trying to ease their pain as well.
So you see Mr. Hallmark, though I no longer live on earth
I must find a way, to remind her of her wondrous worth
She needs to be honored, and remembered too
Just as the children of earth will do
Thank you Mr. Hallmark, I know you’ll do your best
I have done all I can do; to you I’ll leave the rest.
Find a way to tell her, how much she means to me
Until I can do it for myself, when she joins me in eternity.
Rhonda Lee Johnson June 3, 1963 to January 2, 1999 I miss you Rhonda.
This is for all the mothers
who
have sat up all night with sick
toddlers in
their arms, wiping up barf laced with Kraft dinner and
wieners, birthday
cake,
and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's
here."
Who have walked around the house all night with their babies when
they
kept crying and wouldn't stop.
This is for all the mothers who have shown up at work with
spit-up in
their
hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who have run carpools and made dozens of
cookies
for
school teas and sewn Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who
HAVEN'T
because they're at work trying to keep on top of the bills.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never
see.
And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes and all
their love.
This is for all the mothers who have frozen their buns off on
metal
bleachers at hockey, baseball or soccer games any night of
the week instead of watching from their cars, so that when their
kids
asked,"Did you see me?" they could say, "Of
course, I wouldn't have
missed it for the world," and meant it.
This is for all the mothers who have yelled at their kids in the
grocery
store and swatted them in despair when they stomped their
feet like a tired 2-year old does, who wants ice cream before
dinner
and
then hated themselves for "losing" it.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children
and explained
all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to
but
just couldn't.
For all the mothers who read "Goodnight, Moon" twice a
night for a
year.
And then read it again. "Just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie
their
shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers
who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who taught their sons to cook and sew
and
their
daughters to be brave and strong (and sink a jump shot.)
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a
little
voice
calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their
own offspring are
at home or grown up.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with
stomach
aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there,
only to
get calls
from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick
them
up.
Right away. And they do.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, and who
can't
find the words to reach them.
For all the mothers who bite their lips sometimes until they
bleed
when
their 14-year old dye their hair green.
What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience?
Compassion? Broad
hips?
The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a
shirt,
all at the same time?
Or is it the heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your
son or
daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for
the
very first time?
Or the terror in your heart at 1 AM when your teenager with the
new
driver's
license is an hour late getting home.
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at
2A.M.
to
put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
Or to feel the dull ache as you look in on your sleeping daughter
or
son the
night before they leave for a college in another city.
The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when
you
hear news
of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?
For all the mothers of the victims of all the school shootings,
and the
mothers of those who did the shooting. For the mothers of the
survivors,
and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging
their
child who just came home from school, safely.
This is for mothers who have tearfully placed flowers and teddy
bears
on
their children's graves. Whose children have died from
illness, accidents and the worst of all and hardest to
comprehend, suicides.
This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and
sleep
deprivation.
And mature mothers who have learned and are still learning, to
let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers and married mothers.
Grandmothers whose wisdom and love remains a constant for their
grown
children and their children's children.
Somebody said a mother is an
unskilled laborer
Somebody
never gave a squirmy infant a bath.
Somebody said it takes about six weeks to get back
to normal after you've had a baby . . . somebody
doesn't know that once you're a mother, normal is
history.
Somebody said a mother's job consists of wiping
noses and changing diapers . . . somebody doesn't
know that a child is much more than the shell he
lives in.
Somebody said you learn how to be a mother by
instinct . . . somebody never took a three-year-old
shopping.
Somebody said being a mother is boring . . .
somebody never rode in a car driven by a teenager
with a driver's permit.
Somebody said teachers, psychologists and
pediatricians know more about children than their
mothers . . . somebody hasn't invested her heart in
another human being.
Somebody said if you're a "good" mother, your child
will "turn out" . . . somebody thinks a child is
like a bag of plaster of Paris that comes with
directions, a mold and a guarantee.
Somebody said being a mother is what you do in your
spare time . . . somebody doesn't know that when
you're a mother, you're a mother ALL the time.
Somebody said "good" mothers never raise their
voices . . . somebody never came out the back door
just in time to see her child wind up and hit a golf
ball through the neighbor's kitchen window.
Somebody said you don't need an education to be a
mother . . . somebody never helped a fourth grader
with his math.
Somebody said you can't love the fifth child as much
as you love the first . . . somebody doesn't have
five children.
Somebody said a mother can find all the answers to
her child-rearing questions in the books . . .
somebody never had a child stuff beans up his nose.
Somebody said the hardest part of being a mother is
labor and delivery . . . somebody never watched her
"baby" get on the bus for the first day of
kindergarten.
Somebody said a mother can do her job with her eyes
closed and one hand tied behind her back . . .
somebody never organized seven giggling Brownies to
sell cookies.
Somebody said a mother can stop worrying after her
child gets married . . . somebody doesn't know that
marriage adds a new son or daughter-in-law to a
mother's heartstrings.
Somebody said a mother's job is done when her last
child leaves home . . . somebody never had
grandchildren.
Somebody said being a mother is a side dish on the
plate of life ... somebody doesn't know what fills
you up.
Somebody said your mother knows you love her, so you
don't need to tell her . . . somebody isn't a
mother.
Eesaw Wood
Eesaw Wood had a woodsaw, that would saw wood, and of all the woodsaws Eesaw Wood ever saw saw wood, Eesaw Wood never saw a wood saw that would saw wood like Eesaw Wood's wood saw would saw wood. A little reminder of mum, now say it very fast.
INTRO: You're just an angel and I love you. There are friends who'll want you, but just for a day. There are pals you think true, but they'll cast you away. But there's one loving soul boys, I'll sure recommend, Through this old world of sorrow, she'll be true to the end. Mother, though her hands are all wrinkled and old. Mother, silver hair that has lost all the gold. (You left her alone, went to roam through the years But all that you left her was heartache and tears) So kiss her old brow, whisper softly and true Mother, you're just an angel, and I love you. Recitation: On the door of a cottage, a wreath sadly hung And the hearse stood there waiting, as the choir sadly sung. There were flowers in their beauty and the old Parson, he prayed. This was the last tribute as they left for her grave. She won't meet you tonight son, when you crave her caress. She has reared you to manhood and now you've laid her to rest. Those flowers in their beauty, ah! to her, they're unknown 'Cause tonight she's with the angels, up around God's great throne. So don't wait that late, son to try and repay Give those flowers and give those treasures and give them today. Let her know that you love her and kindly show her that you care. 'Cause she's your Mother, God love her, she's as true as a prayer. So, kiss her old brow, whisper softly and true Mother, you're just an angel and I love you.
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