A tribute for Mother’s Day


As mother’s day approaches, I stumbled upon the following, which I thought was very appropriate.  I don’t know who wrote it, but they were certainly on the right track.
A Mother’s Day
See if you recognize the woman in this little story:
She flopped down on the couch and heaved a great sigh of relief.  She was tired.  So tired, she wondered if she could face another day. All three of them had been like little hellions from the moment they awoke until they finally went to sleep — five minutes ago. 
All day they fought over toys, food, books, games, TV.  Everything! She was surprised they didn’t fight over what to fight over next! They had each worn three separate outfits that day and the washing machine was running in over-drive, again. How could they get so dirty?  Twice that day she had to search the neighbourhood for them — to bring them home to meals they didn’t like and wouldn’t eat without a full hour of cajoling and threats. 
But now, finally, they had apparently fallen asleep.  She rested for a moment, wondering if it was all worth it.  Then, she got up and went into the bathroom to remove the messy remains of the nightly bath routine. And then she picked them up — three pairs of small, worn, canvas shoes. Laces broken, soles thin and all three dirtier than ever before. She looked at them for a moment and shook her head. Then her eyes started to fill with tears and a smile slowly crept over her face as a great overwhelming mother’s love swept over her.  She silently crept up the stairs to cover them one more time and give them a goodnight kiss as they slept.
And that’s what Mom is all about.
Real Mothers
Real Mothers don't eat quiche; they don't have time to make it.
Real Mothers know that their kitchen utensils are probably in the sandbox.
Real Mothers often have sticky floors,  filthy ovens and happy kids.
Real Mothers know that dried play-dough doesn’t come out of carpets.
Real Mothers don’t want to know what the vacuum just sucked up.
Real Mothers sometimes ask, “Why me?” and get their answer when a little voice says, “Because I love you best.”
Real Mothers know that a child’s growth  is not measured by height, years or grade. It is marked by the progression of Mommy to Mom to Mother.
 The Images of Mother
• Four years of age: My Mommy can do anything.
• Eight years of age: My mom knows a lot — a whole lot.
• Twelve years of age: My mother doesn’t really know quite everything.
• Fourteen years of age: Naturally, mother doesn’t know that.
• Sixteen years of age: Mother? She’s hopelessly old-fashioned.
• Eighteen years of age: That woman is way out of date.
• Twenty-five years of age: Well, she might know a little bit.
• Thirty-five years of age: Before we decide, let’s get Mom’s opinion.
• Forty-five years of age: I wonder what mom would have thought about this?
• Sixty-five years of age: Wish I could talk it over with mom.
The beauty of a woman
The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she will wear, 
the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair.
The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes, 
because that’s the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides. 
The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, 
but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul.
It is the caring that she lovingly gives and the passion that she shows. 
The beauty of a woman, with passing years, only grows!