Let's face it. The human race will continue to exist through no other means than motherhood. That statement, in and of itself speaks volumes and leaves little room for qualification. Lest I wander off into a hotbed of moral contention and emotionally charged arguments, allow me to get right to the point:
I love my mother. She loved me first and, as we got to know each other, the love grew. Without a doubt she loved me before she even knew me. I had to know her, however slightly, before I would feel the same way.
And know her, I did. I lived with her every day. She raised me (along with my father, but Mother's Day isn't about him). There is a reason we use the word "raise" to refer to child rearing. It implies "a lifting up". It involves a mental lifting. An emotional lifting. And, naturally, a lot of physical lifting as well. Most importantly, child rearing, at least in my case, involved a spiritual lifting.
She taught me, but not with books and chalkboards and homework. She taught me when she spoke. She taught me when she worked. She taught me when she prayed. She taught me as she lived. My mother probably wasn't even aware of it most of the time, but the good principles she received from her parents were being transmitted to me.
I have lived a little. I have lived enough to know that children can be the greatest source of pride as well as the greatest source of pain for their parents. I also know that neither the one nor the other is a very good indicator of how well a child was raised. After all, child rearing is not like programming a computer. It is more like preparing a soldier. What one does with that training is entirely up to him. Frankly, I hope my mother's pride far outweighs the pain in the long run. Perhaps it will, I suppose, if I allow her influence to continue to speak to me.
Thanks, mom, for EVERYTHING. I don't know how else to say it. I love you.