My mom is a good woman. She's not particularly flashy; whereas my father would dominate a room, my mom would work quietly in the background. If they were casting The Hare and the Tortoise, my father would be the Hare, running off in all directions , not necessarily along the designated path. My mother would plug along unobtrusively. And you know how that story turned out.
At my father's funeral, my sister sang "Wind Beneath My Wings" to my mother on behalf of my father. No, my father never sang that, probably seldom said it. (And yes, it's a treacly song, but one gets a pass when dealing with grief.)
There were lots of adults in my mother's early life, including at least one uncle, one aunt, and a very domineering maternal grandmother. Then she married this multitalented singer-painter-bunch of other hyphenates. Perhaps this explains that at some level, she's still finding herself.
I haven't seen my mom in over a year, though we talk on the phone regularly, but I'll see her next month, ironically around Father's Day.
Happy Mother's day, Mom. Carol's a good mom. Lydia and I almost certainly wouldn't get out the door in time every weekday to catch the bus if not for her. While I dress the child, Carol does her hair and makes sure I have the right accouterments, whether it be blankets for nap time or her swimsuit. At night, she picks her up from daycare, makes us dinner, makes sure she has clean clothes. I usually give the medicines and get her into the pajamas, but Carol makes sure Lydia's teeth are brushed and flossed before I read stories and sing songs. And on Thursday nights, when I have church choir rehearsal, Carol does all of the tasks above.
It's not just the functions, though. Lydia feels safe and secure with her mommy, and that makes me very happy.