What about Mom?

I know this is Dad's blog, but you can't have bread without butter, and you can't have the great man without the woman standing beside him. What about Mom? This post is for a big lady in a little body. This is the poem I wrote for her for Mother's Day in 1997. It seems even more appropriate now than then, because her shoes have grown a lot since then. We love you, Mom!

Little Feet, Big Shoes

My mother’s feet are tiny,

My mother’s hands are small,

And when she talks you might not hear

Her quiet voice at all.

But Mom will be a giant

Until her dying day

For she never does a single thing

In a little way.

She always is the first one up

And last to rest her head.

There’s far too much to think and do

To waste her hours in bed.

Her days are full of motion:

She’s never still for long.

And when the rest are resting,

Mom’s still going strong.

Mom’s family’s always growing,

Spreading out through the years,

But her adages and stories

Still ring inside their ears.

She taught with great intensity

(Her lessons were dramatic):

Once learned, not soon forgotten—

On that she was emphatic.

There’s no such word as “average”

In Mom’s vernacular.

A simple plan in Mother’s hands

Soon turns into spectacular.

We had no minor holidays—

Each one a main event.

And all Mom’s work so fast enjoyed

For her was time well spent.

Mom’s talents are considerable

(She’d be tough to out-do).

It’s good she had so many kids

That she could pass the on to,

For though Mother’s hands are tiny

And her feet are smaller still,

Somehow her shoes are far too big

For any one of us to fill.