Foremost on my Mind: Your Mother, My Mother

She's the type of woman you may find hard to live with these days, but you certainly couldn't have lived without back in the early years. Her name on the call display could mean trouble, a visit, or both. Or it could be a simple greeting that sends you thinking back of your childhood.

Even the very mention of her name conjures up memories of fresh cookies, a shoulder to cry on, and the calming influence in the turbulent sea of life—or at least for me it does. How she put up with the temper tantrums, late nights, and mood swings is beyond me. How, in the face of said misbehaviour, she still even speak to any one of us is likewise beyond me.

She's your mother, she's my mother, and we really need to honour her more than we do.

For any number of reasons, motherhood is not as popular as it once was in many circles. However, I must admit that in the varied communities I move among, it is still seen as noble, worthy, and desireable. I see that among my daughters and their peers; and I see it whenever I get to a park or a playground.

I am not sure when and why motherhood became a default lifestyle, to the point that the following revealing questions have become acceptable: Do you work or are you just a mother? Are these all your kids? Don't you know there's an over-population problem?

I think of my own mother, now in her late eighties--living by herself, driving her own car, and enjoying good health. She was a war bride from...Edmonton, moving out to BC, where my dad was getting established after World War II. Back in those day, she did with what she could afford—which wasn't much—with minimal conveniences and comforts.

In the course of time, she and my father had four sons. I like to think that it took them four tries to get it right, with yours truly being the end result, the apex, the caboose--or some have derisively stated, the baby. No wonder: If they stopped at son number three, that would have been a disaster. That would have been like being stopped on the goal line, like fanning on an empty net, like a swing and a miss, like...well, you get the picture.

To say nothing of the world—or at least the county—being deprived of this column (and this columnist).

To compare yesteryear's moms (say, during the post-war years) with today's mom would be highly instructional, but patently unfair: Unfair because some of today's young mothers do know how to can and preserve; unfair because some of today's young mother's don't dump their kids in daycare or after-school classes; and unfair because some of today's young mothers don't see their children as a burden.

Back when I was a kid--that is, the '50s and '60s--that, of course, was unheard of. Mom was the pilot of the ship, the warden at the zoo, the maestro on the podium. Perfect? Not in your life, but there was that consistent, steadying, over-arching influence—always there for us.

It's just not quite the same anymore. In a world of pre-packaged meals, universal daycare, fast food, endless credit cards, and iPads, the dynamics of a stay-at-home mother is, well, so quaint, so demeaning. Or at least it appears to be.

Your mother, my mother, our mothers, did the best they could under the circumstances they were handed. This coming weekend is the one day a year—for some reason—that we celebrate their gift to us.

Maybe our gift to them should be renewed gratitude and honour—on a daily basis. An occasional platter of cookies would go a long way, too. Just make sure they're homemade.