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Happy Mother’s Day to all Motherhood

May 4, 2011 by USA Post 

Happy Mother’s Day, Honestly, I think that my mother raised a daughter and four sons, and all managed to live and keep our members and finished high school without extensive brain damage before we left (well, any brain damage that occurs after that point is not the fault of the mother, now that is?), and I am amazed by how. I say this as a single man without children, so it is logical to think that I have no idea what it feels like to do their job. But I think I can safely say that she did a good job Dang. Naturally, Dad was too, but Mom had the weight of the calf in the house.

She was the classic homemaker who made large family meals and bread and clothing stitched … child, when he said that way, the Amish perfect sound. But that was the way it was. She did not reject a life in the workplace, Dad had a job capable of supporting the family, and someone had to take care of children.

I remember having friends who were in awe of my mom. Of course, had mothers too, but would come to play and then suddenly, there would be freshly baked cookies to eat! And if they stayed to dinner, they were always so impressed by the party every day. Mom was very good for making large meals, but very tasty, so everyone had enough to eat and not complain about it.

Those were the early years.

So fast forward ahead to when there were less taking-care-what to do at home, when children grew into our teens and / or out of the house evolved from mom-housewife-mother part-time working-mom. All this was just too practical. The best way to use your time. So at some point, she worked for a sewing and craft store in town, and soon after, began teaching a class at the store.

This was the second era of the mom that I remember. She became less the epitome of June Cleaver, and more on the real mother that we are all quite accustomed. Fresh baked bread gave way to the store-bought varieties (most of the time, anyway). She was not automatically at home when I returned from school. But she still made big dinners at night and kept the house in order all the same.

W hat I would not give for my mother again.

I give up everything I have if I could turn back the clock. If, once again, that could take it to dinner today. Or send her flowers. Or wish you a Happy Mother’s Day. But I cannot. My mom is gone.

To me, this is the saddest day of the year. A day of distress. A day of painful memories. I remember like it was yesterday. The hospital … sitting next to her bed … as night became day … holding his hand … life as his body declined. And my lips, wet with tears, begging, “Mom, do not die Please, Mama, do not die.” My mom died on May 5, on my birthday.

After one year, day, hour, burned in my memory.

Unfortunately, children of all ages take their mother for granted. We will always be the loving care, concern.

Then one sad day, she’s gone.

And we’re lost, confused, and heartbroken. And then it’s too late. Too late to say the words meant. Too late to do the things I wanted. What I would give to my mom again. To say the things I felt but never said.

“Thanks, Mom, for giving me life. For healing my wounds … to kiss my pain … for the nights I nursed through an illness. Thanks, Mom, for teaching me right from wrong. . To respect others … to recognize the true values?? Of life.

“Thanks, Mom, for your love … you’re understanding … your sacrifices. Thanks, Mom, for being my mom.”

I will say those words today. In his grave. When it’s too late. And I’ll wish he had told her when she was alive. Perhaps, I would think that she knew that anyway.

I’ll look stunning in his grave, a pain in my heart, and try not to show pain and tears. Mom would not like that. She just wanted happiness for their children.

I’ll remember what used to be when Mom was there.

Mom wanted to say how he could afford to give their children more. She gave us a lot. She gave us love and understanding and a happy home.

My mom grew up in Europe. She never went to school. However, she was raised. School life was her classroom, common sense was his teacher.

My mother lived with simple rules of thumb. Work hard, raise their children properly, help the needy, thanks to God for his blessings.

My mom did not have electric kitchen appliances. Or a washing machine. Or a nanny. Or have someone come and help with the cleanup.

Mom worked and slaved to put their children in school to “amount to something.” She wanted them to have more than I had.

“I realize now, what she gave us, the sacrifices he made for us. The way she woke at dawn to the media so clothes would be clean for school. How could light the charcoal stove so hot that when their children got up. How could their knees scrubbing floors, washing clothes, preparing meals and cleaning house.

She asked nothing for herself. His children were his life. Our happiness was his happiness. Our pains were her pains. Our success was his success.

I remember my mom went to sleep, then stay up late and sew clothes, curtains starch, bake for an hour and wrap the ice in the newspaper.

Sometimes I lie in bed silently watching her. The tears that wet my pillow and I promised myself that someday I would try to compensate for the sacrifices he made for us when we were kids.

I once said, “Someday, when I’m grown up and rich. I’m going to buy the biggest house and the best clothing in the world …”

Mom smiled, hugged me and shook his head, saying: “A mother giving a child should not take.”

My mom is gone now. Nothing will take away the wonderful memories he left me.

I remember blushing smiled when he introduced “my girl.” I was 9, she was 8. I remember how proud he looked when I graduated from high school.

I remember the concern drawn on the face and pain in his eyes when I went to war. And look reborn when I returned. And worrying about me had become shiny black hair and gray.

I remember going shopping with her on the East Side of Manhattan, despite living in Corona, because the food was cheaper. The hot summer days at Coney Island, with Mom sitting under an umbrella, took off his shoes and socks and wading to the ankles. And seeing as I listened to mourn mother of all problems in the American League and John Alexander J. Anthony radio programs. I could not understand, but Mom said she “enjoyed” the programs.

I would like to speak personally with each child, no matter the age. To tell you how lucky he is still your mom. To tell you to love, appreciate, respect their mother.

To say. To prove it.

Not just today, Mother’s Day, but every day.

Before it is too late.

Because someday, like me, and so many other children of all ages who have lost their mothers, will stand in a tomb at the Mother’s Day.

And his heart filled with pain and her eyes filled with tears.

And you will be thinking over and over again:

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