“God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers.” –Jewish proverb

When God created mothers, he equipped them with superior senses, acute awareness, and a mega dose of extra sensory perception. Mothers are superwomen and omnipresent. Even when they are not physically with you, you feel their loving presence.

Oprah Winfrey has said, “Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.”

Every biological, adoptive, step, foster, or surrogate mother would agree. Yes, mothers have evolved over the years.

When I was a child, most mothers were the stay-at-home variety, mine included. Back then most moms also wore house dresses like June Cleaver (“Leave It to Beaver”) or Margaret Anderson (“Father Knows Best”), mine included. Thankfully, house dresses are now passé. More importantly, the idea that stay-at-home mothers don’t really work has also vanished. Today, we rightly recognize all mothers as working mothers, whether employed outside the home or not.

Despite the evolution of mothers, some things remain the same. Mothers can still kiss a boo-boo and make it all better know what is going on behind closed doors hear a cookie jar lid being removed from another room smell tobacco breath through the pungent odor of peppermint (in my day, Sen-Sen) and taste burned cookies and declare them delicious.

Knowledgeable on many topics, moms gladly impart their wisdom with pithy remarks.

For example, on nutrition, “Eat your vegetables. There are starving people in (insert a country here).” On finance, “Do you think money grows on trees?” On obedience, “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times.” On conversation, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.” On recreation, “It’s always fun until someone gets hurt.” And my personal favorite, on explanations, “Because I’m your mother and I said so.”

Being a mother and a stepmother is the most challenging job I have ever had. It is also the most rewarding. Much love to my children, Sarah, Lisa, and Jim. I couldn’t have done it without you!

With eternal gratitude, I dedicate this column to my mother, Helen. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you or miss you. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.

–Chicago Mary

“When you have kids I hope you have one just like you,” Ma threatened.

“You did,” Ma’s grand-brat chimed in three decades later. Mysterious, how that happened, considering they never met as that elder was deceased years before her granddaughter came along to delight and enlighten her own mama. Maternal supremacy, instilled by culture as well as genetics, however began way before either of our time.

“Leave the kid alone!” Ma stood in her mother’s doorway, wooden spoon in one hand and fingers spread apart wide on the other, like they did when she was Really Mad. “She hasn’t done anything,” Grandma yelled. Fire shot from her eyes. The coal in the little stove fell over and the burning pieces of wood hissed.

Grandma was right. The kid hadn’t done anything. Much. Well, there was that minor incident where she sort of ran barefoot out of the sleeping house and across the snowed in driveway to Grandma’s. At dawn. When everyone else was in bed. And she sort of had been ordered, on a previous occasion, to not ever do that again. Or else.

Maternal fire was dampened and she lost that little battle, to which she responded with her usual silent snit. Notwithstanding, that same matriarch pronounced “special” every meal her daughter cooked, every fish she caught, and every wall she painted. Every thing her child did was special. It stood of course that her special daughter’s daughter would be special too. At least that was her plan.

Ma wore pearls, heels, and a dress when she went out. She performed needlepoint, cooking, cleaning, gardening, and other works of domestic art. Liberated before her time, she also landscaped, renovated, fished, hunted, and camped. Her wise words to this jeans bearing refuter of everything domestic: “Don’t ever let your husband know you know how to paint. You’ll be doing it all the time.” Unfortunately she did not say that goes for housework too. Some lessons are to be experienced, not taught, as this writer passed on to her own daughter.

Mothers and daughters. Daughters and grandmothers. God love ‘em and may they rule forever. And in that vein I wish to nominate for my own personal Mother of the Year, Janet Bank. In the space of one and a half years that remarkable woman lost two sons and her mother, and came up still clinging to the hem of Christ’s garment, faith intact and a heart with mansions of space for others.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers everywhere!

Applying mascara, shaving one’s face, combing one’s hair, eating an ice cream cone, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, chatting on a cell phone. These are innocuous activities—unless you are doing them while driving a motorized vehicle.

It’s a no-brainer, drivers should drive responsibly. That means keeping distractions to a minimum. Yet, I have witnessed drivers doing all of the above and more. Once, on an expressway, I saw a driver reading a map that he had spread across his steering wheel. I kid you not!

Last week I drove behind someone who alternated between almost going off the road and crossing the centerline into oncoming traffic. This went on for miles. The reason for his erratic driving? He was text messaging! Talk about an accident waiting to happen.

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) states, “Any activity a driver engages while driving has the potential to distract the driver from the primary task of driving.” This should not be surprising news, folks. Safely navigating a couple of tons of steel requires both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, and a mind set on the task.

Some traits of unsafe drivers include negligence, inattentiveness, and aggressiveness. Add speeding, driving under the influence of alcohol, and deliberately disregarding the rules of the road, and it is no wonder traffic accident deaths and injuries rank among the most serious public health problems in the USA.

This hit home last week when two of my loved ones were the innocent victims of a rear-end collision. This was not just a fender-bender both cars had major damage. My loved ones spent the next 12 hours in the emergency room undergoing x-rays, scans, and MRIs. Thankfully, neither one had life-threatening injuries. The driver at fault and her passenger declined medical treatment their car’s airbags deployed sparing them from injury. It appears driver distraction was the probable cause.

The NHTSA web site (www.nhtsa.gov) states its mission: “Save lives, prevent injuries, reduce vehicle-related crashes.” Perhaps all drivers should make it their mission too.

-Chicago Mary

“You don’t just stop being a mother,” this one said in a tone that shook the light fixture. The kid had turned 19 and asserted that she was an adult and would heretofore make her own decisions. “You don’t just stop being a kid and suddenly be a grown up,” would have been excellent repartee had it occurred then. Wise cracks seldom happen when you need them.

This mama’s single goal of childhood was to grow up and do exactly as she so desired. She would, for your information, stay up till all hours, don high heels and make all those wonderful clip clop sounds, and wear lipstick. And further pursuant to that, there would be nothing anyone could do about it. So there. The years did what years do and finally the goal seeker was rewarded for perseverance if not patience. It was not long however before she became, as she continues to, appreciative of 10 PM sleep, and tie up shoes formulated for walking/jogging rather than those stiletto jobs made for neck breaking trips, pun intended. Lipstick got to stay, after all it serves as punctuation at the end of utterance, and coloured mouth expressions are louder than pale ones. Cosmetics aside, those feelings of first autonomy are heady and can leave a person in a boggle.

Shower, was the plan one 2 AM of new freedom. No parents to decide that would wait till daytime. It was predawn, after all, and there was nothing better to do. The new adult does, despite self assurances to the contrary, have flashbacks from years of parental dictation: What will the landlords say? Is it allowed? Will I get into trouble? As it turned out the shower answered for itself. The house was old and there were no laws then to prevent owners from chopping heritage into money maker apartments. The plumbing was elderly too, and as water issued forth in abundance it howled through the antique building like the lost souls of Hades.

Rap rap tap. The summons was ignored while the tenant held her breath and wondered wildly what to do now, and the landlady went away. It never works like that with one’s parents. Or progeny. The book of grownup’s lesson number six learned at 2:12 on a dark autumn morning: Do what you want but make sure it is legal and moral, and hope that lipstick is not fattening. Life in the proving ground of maturity can send a wannabe sophisticate under the covers, thumb well anchored in mouth.

The bubbly joy of being on one’s own for the first time remains for many of us despite a few decades of life experience. The clutch of curiosity and newness is what drives us to keep recreating that experience.

Or maybe it is the other way around.

-lmg