The dictionary defines mothering as showing care and affection. I’m lucky to be surrounded by mothering friends. They invite me to supper with them, give Luna a last bite of pizza crust, tell me I have little tiny ants coming in a crack by the back door and murder ten of them. They make a point of greeting me at a big open house for public radio and are willing to go raid the food table for me.  They feed my soul with book recommendations.

On Mother’s Day or when I think back on my mother, I’m struck by the traits we share. She fought fiercely for me to be educated by public schools long before that was the norm and the law.  I fight fiercely for access for people with disabilities to love, work, and play and pray as they wish.  She loved to stay up late reading a spy story; so do I.  She and my dad taught us to play bridge and I still enjoy it.  Unfortunately I didn’t get her artistic tendencies unless you call creative cooking an art.  I did inherit/learn her high standards which can be both a blessing and a curse.

Some of her momilies come out of my mouth automatically (or at least run through my brain when I’m around the young):

Clean your plate. There are people starving in India/China/Ecuador…

Close the door; you’ll let flies in.

Do your best.

Who died and left you in charge?

Don’t address adults by their first names.

Children should be seen and not heard.

If you want something done right, do it yourself.

Thanks people who mother. I hope you get some mothering too! In addition to writing cards to those who mother my retired guide dogs, I’ll call a couple gals I know who aren’t moms to chat. I’ll   bake cookies for finals week sustenance at church for students this week. Luna took me on a Mother’s Day stroll to enjoy the sounds and smells of spring.

 

 

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