Mother's Day: Mom Never Has to Say 'I Love You'

I love my mom. I try to tell her that every day, not just on Mother's Day.

It doesn’t always happen on a daily schedule. But it should. There’s no excuse for it not to.

I know my mom loves me. She tells me every chance she gets. But she doesn’t have to. I just know.

I’m pretty sure I can speak for my five siblings on that point as well. Her love for us has never been in doubt. Never been any question about it. Ever. Infinity.

I can’t speak for my five siblings about the specifics of why they know this to be true. There’s bound to be variations of moments and memories as indidual and diverse as we all are. But the knowledge is exactly the same. 

I can speak as to why I know this to be true. There are too many examples to detail, so I’ll just submit a few small samples as evidence based on my personal recollections. Not that I need to.

As a care-free toddler, I remember bricks being thrown through the windows of our house by an angry inner-city mob during the racially-charged rioting backdrop of the early 70s. I remember being herded into a dark upstairs bedroom. I remember police. Many of them. I remember escaping under mayoral escort out the back. And I remember Mom’s steadfast, calming demeanor that no harm would ever befall me while she was on watch.

I remember the time my little (younger) sister’s shoe slipped off her white-socked foot during a sunny afternoon bicycle ride down the block. There were three of us on the bike. My older (bigger) sister at the helm, myself and little sis on the back. We turned around to go fetch the shoe. That’s when little sis’s big toe rolled tightly into the chain and sprocket, severing her young bone clean through. Our forward momentum came to an instant halt with a scream and a jerk. 

I remember running to tell Mom that my sister’s foot was bleeding, and that her toe was dangling grotesquely. I also remember the seemingly instant appearance of kitchen scissors in Mom’s hand as she crossed the front lawn and ran down the sidewalk. There was only a fraction of hesitation as she surveyed the situation and, in an amazing display of personal strength and fortitude, snipped the last remaining bit of skin that kept my sister’s toe lodged in the chain. She then picked up the toe-tip, still cradled in the now red-saturated sock, grabbed my sister, and sped outwardly unfazed to the emergency room.

On more than one occasion, she made me creamy tomato soup after an afternoon of sledding down a January hill. She would also make the most perfectly-crisped grilled cheese sandwiches to go along with it and keep them coming until I couldn’t possibly warm up anymore.

During a rather robust game of backyard Wild West, Mom looked up from doing the dishes and glanced through the window to spy my sister drawing back on her makeshift bow. I’m pretty sure she didn’t see my fantastic flanking maneuver around the swing-set that allowed me to start hacking away on my brother’s thigh with a flimsy cardboard hatchet, even as he continued to fire air puffs at my sister with his Winchester-replica toy rifle. No. She zeroed in on the girl with the live arrow cocked and targeted and shrieked, “put that down before you put someone’s eye out” only a second or two before that same arrow set sail and...effectively put my brother’s eye out. 

After that unfortunate incident, her wisdom was never doubted and response times amongst the rest of the family to any future similar warnings improved dramatically.

I remember going through what seemed like cases of Bactine during the years when I would predictably come home with cuts, scrapes and abrasions after play time (away from Mom’s watch, so any injuries were of my own doing.) The pain of that frequently-applied, all-healing liquid was bearable simply because I knew she knew best.

Every once in awhile, an unbelievably delicious, homemade chocolate malt would magically appear in front of me for seemingly no reason whatsoever.

In high school, when I said I wanted to have 200 teenagers over for a party in the five acres of woods behind the house, complete with a ridiculously loud concert PA system and bonfire, she said yes. (In full disclosure, the words I used were more like “some people” and “a little music”. But she didn’t rescind her approval once the true meaning of those words began materializing. There was, however, a “we’ll talk later” look. I completely understood.)

I always had clean clothes.

When I have failed as an adult, made questionable decisions, acted irresponsibly, ventured down precarious paths, or generally done things that begged for the “I told you so” speech, she has never judged me as anything less than perfect. She has only said, “I love you. I believe in you.”

And she has said that every chance she gets. But she doesn’t have to. She never has to. I just know.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you!