All about Eve (or Mothers) Pt 1

As this week unfailingly marches toward its goal, Mother’s Day, I will be like the flower guy in front of the procession, festooning the path with meager morsels of prose, in the vain hopes of getting you in the spirit as it were. In other words, this week’s essay is going to be about moms, which will hopefully spur you to celebrate Mother’s Day with your mom or any mother.

My mom had to get a Caesarian for me because I got too big to go out the normal way. Truth was I was a late baby, WAY past the due date. The doctors expected me out around December, but I didn’t arrive til much later. How much later, I’m not telling because, quite frankly, I hate celebrating my birthday. I’ll explain my reasons later. Actually, my aunt had to postpone her wedding because of me, or more accurately, because my mom was supposedly going to give birth to me in Dec. So out of respect for my mom’s big belly, they moved it later. However, when she still didn’t have me yet, they went through with the wedding regardless, big belly or no.

I’m sure all of you have heard similar storied about how your mom suffered to have you. I’ve heard other people’s horror stories about how the mother was in labor for 90 hours, trying to push the baby out. But the pain doesn’t stop after childbirth. It continues until the day the parents see Jesus. That pain has another name: worry.

Now, I never thought of myself as a klutz, so it was very shocking to hear that’s what my mom thought of me was. I suppose, the only times she ever remembers clearly are the times when I was hurt. So her view is a little biased. Even though now I’m hobbled in one foot, I still don’t consider myself that clumsy. I think I’m reckless, not necessarily uncoordinated. I tend to push my body harder than it should, I guess it’s a product of my refusal to believe that I’m old. So whereas I recall my wins in dodgeball and my athleticism during PE, she remembers the skinned knees, the wounds to my head and hand that requires stitches, the dislocation of both shoulders and a strange recurring foot injury that is plaguing me as I write this. It’s no wonder she saw me as a klutz.

With this background, it’s no wonder she always worried about me, even when I wasn’t. As a child, I was never aware of this fact; it’s only recently when I’m older that she’s confided me about this. How every time she gets a call from the school office, her heart skips a beat. Or whenever I go on a camping trip with my Scouts, she wakes up every morning to pray for my safety. Or when I go skiing with my dad and mom, she worries throughout the day. I’m pretty sure it’s not healthy, but despite me telling her not to worry, that doesn’t stop her. She will always worry.

Is this God’s way of ensuring the survival of the species? It’s not just in humans either. You see it in the animal world as well. As a child, one of my favorite shows was on PBS, the nature show. Every week, they focused on an animal, and you always rooted for that animal. So one week, it’ll be about antelopes, and when they show tigers chasing antelopes, I would always cheer the antelope to escape. But the next week, when they focus on lions, I would always hope that the lion catches the quick deer. Have you ever noticed that? Maybe it’s just me. So anyway, the nature show will inevitably show how they procreate and take care of the young. And I saw how similar a mother lion is with her cub, it’s the same as how my mom is. Or the mother antelope encouraging her young to get on their feet, because its survival depends on it, reminds me of the way my mom encourages me to ride my bike. And yes my survival depended on it… the survival of my peers. Everyone else can ride a bike, and by gosh, I wasn’t going to be left behind! Sorry, I’m competitive like that.

Since I’m a male, I will never know what it’s like to be a mom. It seems like a life full of worry and trouble. It’s a wonder how any child can survive its journey into adulthood, fraught with deadly obstacles such as elementary school bulies and summer vacation photos of you in embarassing situations. I mean anything and everything can go wrong. For my own sanity, I’d probably lock up my child in my house and never let it leave. I mean, she could be playing outside my house and still get run over or something. Is having a child worth all that? Graying hair, more worry wrinkles, losing your voice and having your own mother gloat about "getting what comes to you" seems to be the end result. I don't konw about you, but sign me up!