you will laugh and you will cry

[Guest guest]

so true--you will laugh and you will cry

I do not think you just have to be a mother to appreciate this..While I think fathers will appreciate this as well, only a mother,will know the true emotion of this.After 21 years of marriage, I discovered a new way of keeping alivethe spark of love.A little while ago I started to go out with another woman. It wasreally my wife's idea."I know that you love her," she said one day, taking me by surprise."But I love YOU," I protested."I know, but you also love her."The other woman that my wife wanted me to visit was my mother, whohas been a widow for 19 years The demands of my work and my three children had made it possible to visit her only occasionally. That night I called to invite her to go out for dinner and a movie."What's wrong, are you okay ?" she asked. My mother is the type ofwoman who suspects that a late night call or a surprise invitation is asign of bad news."I thought that it would be nice to spend some time with you," Iresponded."Just the two of us ?" She thought about it for a moment, then said,"I would like that very much."That Friday after work, as I drove over to pick her up I was a bitnervous.When I arrived at her house, I noticed that she, too, seemed to benervous about our "date". She waited in the door with her coat on. She had curled her hair and was wearing the dress that she had worn to celebrate her last wedding anniversary. She smiled from a face that was as radiant as an angel's."I told my friends that I was going to go out with my son, and theywere impressed," she said, as she got into the car. "They can't wait tohear about our meeting."We went to a restaurant that, although not elegant, was very niceand cozy.My mother took my arm as if she were the First Lady. After we satdown, I had to read the menu. Her eyes could only read large print. Half way through the entr逥s, I lifted my eyes and saw Mom sitting there staring at me. A nostalgic smile was on her lips."It was I who used to have to read the menu when you were small,"she said."Then it's time that you relax and let me return the favor," Iresponded.During the dinner we had an agreeable conversation - nothingextraordinary - but catching up on recent events of each other's life.We talked so much that we missed the movie. As we arrived at herhouse later, she said, "I'll go out with you again, but only if you let me invite you."I agreed."How was your dinner date?" asked my wife when I got home."Very nice. Much more so than I could have imagined," I answered.A few days later my mother died of a massive heart attack. Ithappened so suddenly that I didn't have a chance to do anything for her.Some time later I received an envelope with a copy of a restaurantreceipt from the same place my mother and I had dined. An attached noteread: "Son, I paid this bill in advance. I was almost sure that I couldn't be there but, nevertheless, I paid for two plates - one for you and the other for your wife. You will never know what that night meant for me. I love you."At that moment I understood the importance of saying, in time: "ILOVE YOU" and to give our loved ones the time that they deserve. Nothing in life is more important than your family. Give them the time they deserve, because these things cannot be put off till "some other time."Somebody said it takes about six weeks to get back to normal afteryou've had a baby ... somebody doesn't know that once you're a mother,"Normal," is history.Somebody said you learn how to be a mother by instinct ... somebodynever took a three-year-old shopping.Somebody said being a mother is boring ... somebody never rode in acar driven by a teenager with a driver's permit.Somebody said if you're a "good" mother, your child will "turn outgood". somebody thinks a child comes with directions and a guarantee.Somebody said "good" mothers never raise their voices ... somebodynever came out the back door just in time to see her child hit a golf ball through the neighbor's kitchen window.Somebody said you don't need an education to be a mother ...somebody never helped a fourth grader with his math.Somebody said you can't love the fifth child as much as you love thefirst. somebody doesn't have five children.Somebody said a mother can find all the answers to her child-rearingquestions in the books ... somebody never had a child stuff beans uphis nose or in his ears.Somebody said the hardest part of being a mother is labor anddelivery .. somebody never watched her "baby" get on the bus for the first day of kindergarten ... or on a plane headed for military "boot camp."Somebody said a mother can do her job with her eyes closed and onehand tied behind her back ... somebody never organized seven gigglingBrownies to sell cookies.Somebody said a mother can stop worrying after her child getsmarried .. somebody doesn't know that marriage adds a new son ordaughter-in-law to a mother's heartstrings.Somebody said a mother's job is done when her last child leaves home.. somebody never had grandchildren.Somebody said your mother knows you love her, so you don't need totell her. somebody isn't a mother.Pass this along to all the "mothers" in your life.

[Guest guest]

This is a newspaper column that appeared in the December 28th edition of The

Arizona Republic newspaper, it really touched me - I think it makes me teary

every time!

REBUILDING A STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

The grade school I attended outside Pittsburgh was located at the bottom

of the hill where we lived, and to get there we had to walk down a long

zigzag of wooden steps. I used to know exactly how many there were. More than

200, I’m sure. They were torn down years ago.

For a while after I started first grade, I’d rush outside every day when

the bell rang for morning recess and stare up the steps. About halfway down,

sitting on a landing like the only person in an empty stadium, was my mother.

It was part of a deal we’d made.

I didn’t like being in grade school, or being away from our neighborhood,

or being away from her, so my mother came up with a plan.

Each morning, only a few hours after I’d left for school, she’d stop

whatever she was doing and walk from our house to the steps. She promised to

be there, about halfway down, when I got out for recess.

“I’ll see you and you’ll see me and we’ll both feel better,†she

said.

I’d shove my way onto the playground at the first chime of the recess

bell, and look up. And there she’d be.

At first, I spent most of the play period waving at her and watching her

wave back. After a week or two, I’d wave only a few times before running off

with friends, checking every once in a while to make sure she was still

there. She always was.

KIDS MOVE ON

Then one day, I didn’t look up.

I have no memory of that day. She couldn’t forget it. It’s what kids do,

she said. They grow up. They move from one phase to the next. They make you

happy and sad at the same time.

I didn’t understand it before I had children of my own. Now, I do.

My mother walked down to the steps once a week or so even after I no

longer needed her to be there. She just wanted to make sure I was OK.

It was that way with all the steps that followed. High school. College.

Jobs in towns far away. She was the same with my father and brother, nieces

and nephews, aunts and uncles, grandchildren, friends, neighbors — strangers.

And she was that way year after year.

You never stop being a mother, she said.

When she fell recently and wound up in the hospital, I called her from

work. She was in Pennsylvania and I was in Arizona. It was late in the day,

here, and she knew I was about to leave the office. My mother had cancer,

pneumonia and a possible broken back, but she said to me, “Be careful driving

home, I worry about you.â€

HER OWN MEDICINE

During the time she was in the hospital, the doctors, nurses, therapists

and social workers came to know her for three phrases:

I’m fine. Thank you. I love you.

It seemed at times as if she were the doctor and they were her patients,

and those words — I’m fine. Thank you. I love you. — were her medicine.

At the hospital, we laughed and talked and looked at photographs. She

worried I was spending too much time away from my children and my job. I

learned that parents, like children, go from one phase to the next, making

you happy and sad at the same time.

I’d sit in her room, watching her, trying to believe her when she talked

of going home and making gnocchi and wine biscuits. She was glad my brother

and I were there to be with our father, but she fretted over our long days in

the hospital.

“You don’t have to come here every day,†she’d say.

I’m just checking on you, I’d tell her. I’m walking halfway down the

steps.

One day — it must have been at recess — she didn’t look up.

At her funeral service last week, a son’s limited capacity for writing

proved to be no match for a mother’s genius at living. It was all I could do

to barely, clumsily, pass on to her a brief three-part message:

I’m fine. Thank you. I love you.

She was there, of course. She heard me. There’s no need for me to repeat

myself.

It’s just that, you know, she worries.