I have known intimately three mothers.

The first was my real mother, Ethel. She nourished me in her womb, she nursed me and she raised me up until I left home when I was twenty-three. She also raised my sister Joyce who was nine years older than me.

The second was my first wife, Diane. We married when she was eighteen and we had two children, Christopher and Bryan. We were together for seventeen years.

The third is my present wife, Joan. We celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary two weeks ago! She has three children from her first marriage, Christine, Nigel and Garry.

All three were/are completely different except for one strong common denominator. They were/are mothers.

All three nourished, nurtured, gave up many sacrifices, clothed and loved their children.

Oprah Winfrey once claimed that, “Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.”

On the “Strong Women Strong Girls Blog one of the writers there says, “Mothers are the women around you who guide you – the ones who encourage your dreams, help you pick up the pieces when you falter on your way to those dreams, and believe in you even in the moments when you don’t anymore. They are the women who inspire you, who represent all you hope to someday become a fraction of. They are the women who make room for you in their hearts, who open their lives to you, and who simply hope to make a difference in your life in some small way.”

Ethel was a difficult woman but a good wife to my father, George. They were the absolute example of two opposites attract. They were so different. They were married for over sixty years!

Ethel was a very dominating lady. Her words were often harsh and hateful. She fell out with everyone around her but woe betide anyone who said a bad thing about her children. She would probably be in trouble now because she used the rod, a cane, that was deliberately cut at the end so when it hit you it stung all the more. There was always a reason when she used it. Joyce and I had done something wrong, except on one occasion. I got caned from being home from school late. The reason – I had been pushed by another boy and fallen and hit my head on the sharp corner of a concrete pillar in the playground. I had been knocked out for a minute or so and I was bleeding. It was an hour before I was released. Nowadays it would have been a visit to a hospital. Even though I explained all this I still got thrashed because mother had been worried. There was no telephone at home. I vowed then I would never be unjust to my children.

Even when Ethel was in a home suffering from dementia and did not recognize me or Joyce, there was still that ‘spark’ within her. She hardly said a word. You could talk to her but there was no response. This incident was the last time I saw her. The television was on in her room. You couldn’t tell if she was watching it or not. Joyce and I were chatting when the housekeeper came in. She was putting some things away in one of the drawers and started in to us how the Home was short of staff and she was having to do a second shift. Then we heard a voice booming across the room.

“That’s what you get paid for!”

Ethel. My mum.

She never changed. Within a few weeks she died and despite her ‘ways’ she was a typical mother. She loved. She made sacrifices for her children. She did it for love like all mothers.

A very Happy Mothers Day. Sunday May 13th. Here and in the USA.

Note: In the UK it was Sunday March 11th. – My mother enjoyed getting flowers and a card on the two different days from her two children now in different parts of the world.