On Mother's Day, the treacle drips from sentimental prose.
You know I'm too pragmatic to contribute much to those.
As a mother and a daughter, too, I shrink from such display,
I much prefer to celebrate it every single day
With gratitude to my mother and especially to you
For the wondrous gift of making me a mother, too!
I celebrate with love, worry and with prayer;
With heartfelt faith in seedlings I have planted where
I hope that you will find them as you grow
And somehow, magically, you will always know
The words to say, the things to do
When motherhood drops in on you.
But I am certain, as my mother before me,
That you will fail – you will see! –
And many moments to give and teach
Will quickly fly beyond your reach.
I'd warn you not to grieve too much
The day your child slips from your touch,
But I cried the day that you outgrew
Your newborn clothes (I did. It's true!)
The day would come, I saw it then,
You wouldn't need me ever again.
But a mother's role is not complete
Until it is rendered obsolete
So, tho' you're well and truly grown
And managing nicely on your own;
Tho' I'm proud of what you've become,
I'm afraid I'll always be your mom.
I will preach and advise and nag
Twice as much as I will brag.
No man will be good enough for you,
But I'll try to like him if you do.
And one day, perhaps, you, too, will know
Why I cling and won't let go.
