(Written by Cindy Lange-Kubich)

This is for all the mothers who didn’t win Mother of the Year, all the runner-ups and wannabes, the mothers who’re too tired to enter, or too busy to care.  This for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at soccer games Friday nights instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked: “Did you see my goal?” they could say, “Of course, wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with oscar mayer wieners and cherry kool-aid saying, “It’s okay baby, mommy’s here.”  This is for all the mothers of war-torn countries who fled in the night and can’t find their children.  This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see, and the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.  This is for all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes, and for all the mothers who don’t.

What makes a good mother anyway?  Is it patience?  Compassion?  Broad hips?  The ability to nurse a baby, fry a chicken, and sew a button onto a shirt, all at the same time?  Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?  Is it the jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of your sleeping baby?  Is it the need to flee from wherever you are so that you can hug your child when you hear news of another school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?  I think so; I think it’s heart.

So, this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies.  And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn’t.  This is for reading “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year, and then reading it again “just one more time.”  This is for all the mothers who mess up, who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them out of despair and stomp their feet like a tired two-year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school.  And for all the mothers who opted for velcro instead.  This is for all the mothers who bite their lips—sometimes until they bleed—when their 14-year-olds decide to dye their hair green or pierce their nose.  This is for those who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won’t stop.  This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair, and milk stains on their blouses, and diapers in their purses.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.  This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice in a crowd calls: “Mommy?” even though they know their own children are at home.  This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears onto their children’s graves.  This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them.  This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomach-aches, assuring them they’d be just fine once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to “please pick him up.  Right now!”

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation.  And for mature mothers learning to let go.  And for old mothers living with memories.  For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.  Single mothers and married mothers.  Mothers with money, mothers without.  This is for all of you.  So, hang in there.  Better luck next year.  We’ll be rooting for you.

A mother’s love is like God’s love.  God loves us not because we are lovable, but because it is God’s nature to love, and because we are God’s children.