He's Not Responsible for What He's Doing

I assume everyone with a pulse, or an approximation, is waxing poetic today in honor of Mother's Day, as we well should. My mom, who passed away almost six years ago, was a self-described 'tough old broad' who wrangled six of us to adulthood, the last three for a significant distance without her partner of (at that time) nearly thirty years. I miss her every day but a little more today.

When I was a kid, Mom was more than unflappable, she was a force of nature and in the decades after the death of her husband, all of her children, joined by grandchildren and great-grandchildren watched her finally lead her own life after taking care of so many of us for so long.

Decades ago, Mom came to visit Sigrid and me, and our two children when we all still lived in Germany. She and Franz and Anni Schubert, Sigrid's parents, got along wonderfully well even though they shared not a single syllable of a common language. 

Sigrid's mom was a Rubble Woman upon whose back the Federal Republic of Germany became the economic engine of Europe in the decade after World War II. Anni's husband passed some years ago and Anni followed. However, and I note this lest there be any confusion, the two women took ZERO shit from anybody and raised children pretty much who are the same way.

My sisters, Evan, Kara, and Jill are accomplished, masterful, and successful. They take care of their own families with the same devotion and also the same discipline (no feet on tables, no glasses without coasters) as their mother did them. Glenn, Russ, and Joe were/are fortunate to have them in their lives and smart enough to know it.

I and my two brothers, Kelly and Adam, are married to women, Sigrid, Linda, and Margaret whose Moms raised them to give us the confidence every day to go out into the world and try to reinvent it in our own image and, when we come home at the end of each day, defeated but undaunted, to convince us we can begin again on the morrow because of their love and support. They make us want to be better.

I realize you're afraid with my diabetes, being so sweet puts me in danger of becoming terminally mushy. No worries, I'm not, as I choose to invoke the deathless words of Ray Wylie Hubbard to close. Love ya, Mom(s), all of you.

-bill