My mother is not an angel.
My mother is a saint – but so are most folks who put their trust in a higher power and she has shown me her faith time and again.
My mother is not a beauty queen.
My mother is one of the prettiest, even among the most beautiful people alive – and I’ll fight anyone who wants to argue with me on that count.
My mother is not perfect.
My mother is the woman who gave birth to me, fussed over me, talked to me, helped to free me from my immaturity with dogged determination, laughed at and with me, sat with a flyswatter in hand while I refused to take a nap, and walked into and out of the Grand Canyon with my brother and sister and me.
My mother is not all-knowing.
My mother put up with my questions, factual, hypothetical, and personal beyond all reason and into the realm of the noble – since I am still alive to ask questions.
My mother is not a mechanical genius.
My mother knows the proper application of foot-to-butt in order to achieve better than average motivation and preferred results.
My mother is not a poet.
My mother has wrought lyrical emotions from pies and cakes, those she “iced” into things of beauty, those she baked when she was too tired to see straight, those she gave away, and those she served to hungry visitors and strangers, and the one she dropped on Dad’s birthday when all of us cried because she wept.
My mother is not a musician.
My mother allowed me to play any piano I could get close to, paid for lessons, made me practice when the sun was shining outside and my friends were riding their bikes, listened to me with patience when I discovered something that felt new and wonderful on our old piano, and supported me beyond the pale when I couldn’t help myself for love of music.
My mother is not a scholar.
My mother doesn’t have advanced degrees or certificates of this or that although she has read as much or more than most people I know, is curious and yearns to learn, refuses to settle for simple answers, and admits that there is more to discover than she’ll ever have time to manage.
My mother is not a novelist.
My mother has figuratively written at least four books that I can recall; they are the books of the lives of her children as well as a great portion of the life of her beloved husband who wouldn’t have had it any other way.
My mother is not a scientist.
My mother taught me chemistry at her kitchen counter as we measured, sifted, blended, kneaded, mixed, baked, cooked, canned, and experimented our way into fun-food-creativity.
My mother is not a sports star.
My mother comforted me in little league when I couldn’t see the damn baseball because I was blind as a bat, took me to swimming lessons until we discovered that I’m actually part fish, and allowed me to do so many different outdoor activities that should be included in the roster of Olympic events that I can’t even keep track of them all.
My mother is not a historian.
My mother is a story-teller whose knowledge of things that used-to-be is exceeded only by her willingness to answer our questions of her life that is, whenever I’ve the urge to ask.
My mother is not the best mother in this world.
I don’t know that there has to be a “best”.
My mother is.., my mother. Higher praise I cannot deliver. Greater love I’ll likely never know. More thanks I could not offer. My mother is.., and I’m glad.