Stating the Obvious

Being a mother is taking an enormous gamble. By a roll of the genetic dice and factors outside anyone’s control, a child could grow up to be a perfectly well adjusted adult or a manic-depressive weirdo who never leaves the basement. Some mothers are disinterested at best and abusive at worst, but for the most part, mom’s try their hardest to raise their children in compassionate and loving manner. Again, these efforts sometimes are not enough to overcome the inertia of happenstance, and a young child becomes an adult who promptly falls flat on his face.

Inevitably, good mothers at least in part blame themselves when their children fail to succeed in life. “If I hadn’t yelled at him when he nearly burned down the garage playing with gasoline...” Or “If I hadn’t told her that her choice in boys was terrifying...” Mothers can always think of a million things that they did wrong, all those little mistakes that compounded over time, but the real mistake is in assuming ultimate responsibility for the lives of their children. Mothers can only do so much, and most of the time they give a superhuman effort that is above and beyond the call of duty.

My own mother has had to endure an incredible hardship that tests the limits of endurance and personal fortitude, namely, dealing with me a son. I have put her through the same hell that I’ve suffered through, dragged her down like I was some frantic drowning victim clutching at his rescuer. She has taken it all as “part of the job” of being a mother, but most people would quit any job that was half as bad as what she’s put up with.

How do properly thank someone for saving your life time and time again? In my darkest times, the fear of hurting my mom even more than I already have has kept me going. She has supported my every effort, never pushing me one way or the other, always ready to take on the extra burdens that I thoughtlessly place on her. And all the while, she is the one who apologizes. Here I am dumping a world of misery on her doorstep, and she is the one who says “I’m sorry.” I don’t want to accept an apology that wasn’t warranted in the first place; I want her to realize that none of my problems are her fault. In fact, it’s just the opposite; nearly all of my good qualities, however few they may be, are thanks to my mother’s efforts.

I can’t fully comprehend all that she has sacrificed raising two boys, but the fact that she has done so willingly is nothing short of miraculous. Perhaps it is a cliche to say that “mother” and “martyr” are practically synonymous to me, but it is worth stating the obvious. Of course, there isn’t one instance that I can recall when my mom helped me. That’s because she has supported me continuously for my entire life. She has never not been there, and I know that I can rely on her always.

Despite my best efforts, words fail to deliver the adequate thanks, respect, and love that my mom deserves. So, for lack of a better phrase, I am going to replace “Happy Mother’s Day” with “Love you always, mom, and thanks for sticking around and putting up with all my crap.” That sounds more like me anyway.