Mothers look different from other women. Their hair isn’t always done in the latest style, and sometimes it isn’t done at all. A mother’s clothes sometimes smack of the home-made, but she’s proud of her thrift and her sewing ability.
    A mother is a woman who can bake a cake with six other hands helping her, and still have it fun out fine.
Mothers’ shoulders sometimes smell of sour milk and if you are very observant, you will  note safety-pin holes in their hose. Likely as not junior didn’t park his bike off the sidewalk.
    A mother is different. She Iikes chicken wings and backs, things the kids and Daddy spurn. She never takes the last chop on the plate, and she always saves the candy from her tray at the club to firing home to the children.
    A mother may not have ulcers, but she has versatile tears. They show anger, weariness, hurt or happiness.
Once, when Daddy forgot an anniversary, Mother cried. One Saturday he brought home chocolates when it wasn’t her birthday or anything, and she cried then, too.
Sometimes it’s hard to know just what kind of tears a mother is weeping.
    A mother is someone who can repair the kitchen sink — after Daddy has spent time, tools and expended not a few cuss words.
    A mother is a person who can change diapers all day, feed the baby at two A.M. and still share Daddy’s delight when baby’s first word is „da da”.
    A mother is put together of wondrous things — soft hands to caress a tired head, firm fingers to guide a growing child along the right path, and a warm breast to shield her little one against the world.
    When a mother dies, she must face Him with her record of accomplishments. If she’s been tops in caring for her children, she’ll get the most sought after position in heaven, that of rocking baby angels on soft white clouds, and wiping their celestial tears with the comer of her apron.
Wanda Beal
Almanac, 1972