As much as I wish to let the train of my thoughts take over the track of my keyboard, I am at a loss for words. It’s like I have all the pieces of the puzzle with me, but I am afraid to put them together; I am afraid that the final picture will be as staggering as it can get, and will rob me of the synthetic sanity that I have so come to cherish as means of a survival tool in this world of wolves and predators.
But I am willing to see what is moving the wheels of my heart and mind.
I am willing to listen to the shrills of reality.
I am willing.
The same television set that has channels airing special transmissions for “Mothers’ Day”, also has news channels flashing the plight of the Syrian mothers, the Afghan refugees, the afflicted.
I wonder if they even remember that as they struggle to shield their children from the flying crafts carrying death messages, other mothers across the globe are receiving expensive gifts from their children.
I wonder how they felt while they held those tiny bodies in their hands; at birth, and at death.
I wonder how hungry they were as they helplessly tried to ignore the growling hunger pangs of their sons and daughters.
I do not mean to insult the efforts of those who have the means to celebrate this occasion with festivity. I am merely giving voice to my thoughts; what about those who look up to clean food and water as a luxury, rather than a necessity?
What about those mothers who are forced to watch their boys and girls maze through the polished cars, begging for money, or cleaning the windscreens only to be roughly shouted at?
What about those mothers who give hygiene a backseat while feeding restaurant leftovers sifted from the trash, to their children?
What about those mothers who bury their heart and soul along with the little bodies that they once held? Those little, angelic victims of terrorism?
What about those mothers who are forced to side with the cultural judges when their daughters make headlines for “honor killings”?
What about those mothers who are now residents of old age homes, drifting through their last days, waiting for a single visit from those they gave birth to?
What about those mothers who are made to feel like guests in their own house?
What about those mothers who are made to feel like aliens in this world?
What about them?
‘ “When God Created Mothers”
When the Good Lord was creating mothers, He was into His sixth day of “overtime” when the angel appeared and said. “You’re doing a lot of fiddling around on this one.”
And God said, “Have you read the specs on this order?” She has to be completely washable, but not plastic. Have 180 moveable parts…all replaceable. Run on black coffee and leftovers. Have a lap that disappears when she stands up. A kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair. And six pairs of hands.”
The angel shook her head slowly and said. “Six pairs of hands…. no way.”
It’s not the hands that are causing me problems,” God remarked, “it’s the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have.”
That’s on the standard model?” asked the angel. God nodded.
One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks, ‘What are you kids doing in there?’ when she already knows. Another here in the back of her head that sees what she shouldn’t but what she has to know, and of course the ones here in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and say. ‘I understand and I love you’ without so much as uttering a word.”
God,” said the angel touching his sleeve gently, “Get some rest tomorrow….”
I can’t,” said God, “I’m so close to creating something so close to myself. Already I have one who heals herself when she is sick…can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger…and can get a nine year old to stand under a shower.”
The angel circled the model of a mother very slowly. “It’s too soft,” she sighed.
But tough!” said God excitedly. “You can imagine what this mother can do or endure.”
Can it think?”
Not only can it think, but it can reason and compromise,” said the Creator.
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek.
There’s a leak,” she pronounced. “I told You that You were trying to put too much into this model.”
It’s not a leak,” said the Lord, “It’s a tear.”
What’s it for?”
It’s for joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness, and pride.”
You are a genius, ” said the angel.
Somberly, God said, “I didn’t put it there.”
– Erma Bombeck, When God Created Mothers ‘