Mom Finally Receives Her Award

Portions of this column appeared four years ago when I first wrote it for Mother’s Day. I thought it appropriate to write about my mom again. She’s worth it. I’ve told this to anybody who would listen since childhood. There existed when I was a young boy an annual contest on the local radio station whereby citizens were encouraged to compose eloquent pieces of non-fiction concerning the impact and sainthood of their mothers. The entries deemed as winners were read on the air throughout Mother’s Day weekend. One year I drew a crayon picture. I recall writing a poem another year. Each year, the same result: no airtime for Mom. I suppose when we’re young, our underdeveloped and juvenile minds conjure up ideas that are largely irrational. My unenlightened mind convinced me that somehow I had failed the woman I loved because my inability to win the contest made my mother appear inferior to the “on-air-mothers” in some way. Now that I am older and possess the power of the pen via this column, I thought it appropriate today to set the record straight in regards to the debate as to who might be crowned best mother ever. I’m pretty sure it’s my mom. I must start by saying I am not biased. I am the first to admit that Mom once fed the family Vienna sausages for supper and didn’t even scrape the jelly fat off them before plopping them down in the middle of the table. And I clearly recall a Thanksgiving meal one year when I was young where we gathered together and blessed Swanson’s chicken pot pie before enjoying it for lunch. But what our house lacked in proper nutrition or cuisine, it made up for it with love. Mom was mostly responsible for that. She always made me feel loved. She disciplined me occasionally but I can’t ever remember her criticizing me. She constantly told me how smart I was, how wonderful I was, how athletic I was, and how handsome I was. And for whatever ridiculous reason, I believed her. Mom tossed baseball with me in the yard when I was six. Mom took me to the newspaper office when I was nine when I told her I wanted to write a weekly column. Mom escorted the police to a bully’s house when he picked on me when I was ten. Mom gave me advice about girls when I became permanently confused about the opposite sex at twelve. Mom slipped me extra money when my allowance didn’t cover the cost of my exploits in high school. Mom was always waiting at the door when I came home on weekends from college. Mom opened her arms and welcomed my wife as a daughter when I got married. She’s always believed in me, always trusted me, always loved me unconditionally. Too many times human types wait until someone is gone and it’s too late to tell them all the things they wanted them to know. Not me. Mom is alive and well and reading this like you are. So here’s to you, Mom. I’m sorry my letters and poems weren’t good enough to win prizes and be read over the airwaves when I was a kid. I hope this column will suffice.