What Mothers Do
my mom in the ’50s
Several people have requested the text from today’s commentary on Kansas Public Radio. So, here it is:
WHAT MOTHERS DO
By Cheryl Unruh
Chances are that I’ve never met your mother.
It’s a big world after all, and I’m just a quiet and somewhat introverted person.
Nevertheless, I’ll bet that I can name a few things your mother did for you while you were growing up.
In fact, I’ve made a list.
Yeah, well, OK, this list is things my mother did for me. But maybe your mom did similar things.
A mother hauls you and your friends eight miles to the swimming pool. After she runs her errands, she waits in a hot car under the shade of an elm tree to let you swim for “just five more minutes, pleeeease.”
On the way home, she stops at the Dairy Queen and buys treats for you and your shivering friends.
A mother shows you that in order to detangle your hair, you comb gently from the ends and work in toward the knot.
A mother lets you pout when you are 11. And 12. And 25. And 42.
She doesn’t scold you for picking all the grape hyacinths from the front yard.
A mother teaches you countless things: how to play tennis, how far apart to plant lettuce seeds, and how to pull ticks off the dog.
When your cat gets his head stuck in a mayonnaise jar, a mother manages to break the jar without injuring the frightened Kitty.
She buys a piano. And is brave enough to remain in the house while you play. And actually says she enjoys listening.
When you’re in the eighth grade, a mother rushes to the hospital after she learns that you’ve been taken there with a broken arm.
When you enroll in Spanish class, she tells you that she, too, took Spanish in high school. She remembers the first line from her textbook: “Que es el burro?” And now you will never forget that particular line either. It will come up in future conversations.
A mother introduces you to Mexican food and searching for the best Mexican restaurants becomes a lifelong habit.
A mother rushes to the hospital (on her birthday this time) when she gets the call that your face has been accidentally doused with watered-down hydrochloric acid during high school chemistry class.
She teaches you how to sew a dart on a blouse, how to match plaid material, how to put a zipper in a garment. And she shows you how to rip out seams when you sew them incorrectly.
She puts vitamin tablets at your place at the table.
A mother peels oranges for you for breakfast because you won’t get around to eating them if you have to peel them yourself. (She doesn’t call you lazy, although that term could certainly be applied in this situation.)
When you get your wisdom teeth removed, she purees Spanish rice in the blender for you.
A mother lets you experiment with food coloring, even if the cake frosting turns out purplish-gray (repeatedly.)
She insists that you fasten your seatbelt.
A mother remembers the day that you took a green crayon and scrawled your name on the bathroom door.
A mother is the one you don’t call because you know she’ll detect that “something’s wrong” from the sound of your voice.
A mother is the one you DO call because you know she’ll detect that “something’s wrong” in the sound of your voice.
And, if your mother was anything like my mom, she loved you, unconditionally, even when you begged for five more minutes, even when you picked every grape hyacinth, even when you pouted.
***
Cheryl Unruh writes Flyover People, a column about Kansas topics, published every Tuesday in The Emporia Gazette. Copyright 2008 Cheryl Unruh.
this is just precious, Cheryl. and, you’re right, this could be my mom, except for the broken arm and the acid and the Spanish rice….you are a very thoughtful and grateful daughter. I may have to adopt you.
That’s lovely Cheryl. I agree with ele, you are thoughtful and grateful. You love your mother!
Everything she did was so well, “mother”. But I’m wondering, how was that pureed Spanish rice? LOL
Janet
You know I love this one. My mom did every one of those things. Slightly different versions of some, but every single one. I sure do miss her.
Ok,I thought I’d cried enough yesterday when I went to the cemetery to see my mom. (I can’t make myself go on Memorial Day. I can’t make myself go very often at all. I think she knows though.) I could add a few things to your list, like being catcher for the neighborhood kids when we played ball in our backyard. Putting a bunny with a “real” fake fur tail on a brown jumper for me. Making roses from frosting in the palm of her hand to put on my birthday cake. No using a bag and special tips for her, she patted them out and rolled them together like they were clay instead of powdered sugar and butter and vanilla. She crocheted me a dress and a coat one year. And unraveled them and remade them when they stretched out and hung to the back of my calves from sitting all day. Oh and the swimming suit she crocheted for me that stretched when it got wet and I had to hold up to cover myself the whole mile long walk home from the pool. And the time she pulled a tick from my ear at the pool thru the chain link fence. …
Great memories, April. Love these.
… the time she pulled a tick from my ear at the pool thru the chain link fence…
But a crocheted swimsuit sounds terrifying!
I think everyone ought to share their mom memories….
Cheryl you sure look like your mom! Beautiful women, both of you.
Really good column – and great technique.
My mother was from the generation that wrote letters. Through my college and life in Emporia until the week she died I received a letter save for the occasional times Mom and Dad traveled for several days, usually to visit relatives.
The letters were weather reports, crop reports, canning reports, reports on who had a cold or flu, marriages, funerals, births, car wrecks, reports on calving, commentary on dreary weather gloom, fair news and the list goes on. I knew my home town though I hadn’t lived there for 30 years. Then I drifted away from keeping abreast of the happenings with the Heinekens and of Effingham though I called my dad each week.
My mother was from the generation that wrote letters.
An absolutely wonderful and deeply moving article!
I am sure that William Allen White is so proud of your writing abilities!