Each year, somewhere between the endless commercials for diamonds and the inevitable plaster cast of my son’s growing hand, I start to think about moms. My moms. Or should I say my lack of moms.
Oh yes, I have issues.
I was adopted at birth which quickly takes me from mom #1 to mom #2. (Remind me someday to tell you my theory on why Ted Nugent owes me money). Mom #2 was a fine mom; a leader of Brownie troops, a maker of costumes, and singer of lullabies. But in my first year of Jr. High as I started to need her for more that just bandaging skinned knees, she got sick. She passed away 2 years later when I was in 9th grade.
10th grade brought mom #3; a stranger at the time who has now been my step-mom for over 20 years. When mom #3 married my dad, her children were already in their 20’s and she wasn’t really interested in raising any more kids. So my younger brother and I were still basically on our own. And even though we have developed a loving relationship over the years there is still something missing - she’s not “mom”. It was too late, too soon, too forced, for us to forge that kind of bond. And I know I have missed out on something great.
So go kiss your mom – because I bet she still has every one of those handprints you made for her. They are more precious than diamonds or gold.