Lisa Day

     "She's not my momma," I always say, parroting the long-moved-away neighbor. It's been stuck in my head like a "That's what she said," or a "Between the sheets," after a fortune cookie. 


     But a mother you are, having pulled off a twofer: One by the design of your own choosing, and one by the oldest design of them all. You rarely seemed as bewildered as I was back in the early days, and I will always remember the nitty gritty things you could do as a mom that a Man of Action like me couldn't do even on the best of days. I honestly and freely admit you've always been there for the two kids and I.


     You've started them off better than anyone else could have I must say. You balance the damage I do to them with your watchful eye and higher-pitched voice that seems to register with them on a subconscious level. In short, you have given them the common sense that I seem to lack or forget, and or, neglect to use.


     Oh, they still have a few years under your tutelage and I'm sure you'll keep doing what you do, what you know to be best for them. And even as I'm sure they'll start to pull away from the both of us as they get older, I'm equally sure they'll always think of you as the loving mom who'd give them anything and everything they needed no matter the cost to yourself. And if they do go off into the world and forget that, I'll remind them--emphatically.


     Thank you for watching over us and what's for breakfast?




    -rbm