Moms…

We excuse them when they are wrong.
We defend them when they themselves are at fault.
We comfort them when they fall, even though just a minute ago you clearly, loudly, and understandably said: “Don’t climb. Don’t fall.”
We put them to sleep, even when we ourselves desperately want to sleep.
We heal them, though we haven’t completed even basic medical courses.
We explain things we don’t fully understand ourselves.
We lift them up, even when they are too heavy for us.
We think about them, even when our minds are stuffed with a crazy amount of other tasks.
We feel their moods.
We analyze their glances.
From their eyes, breathing, and gait, we can predict the day’s successes and failures.
We worry over their small misfortunes an unimaginable number of times more than over our own failures.
We give them another chance, even when we’ve sworn countless times that the last one was the final one.
It hurts us when they are in pain.
We don’t get sick when they are unwell.
We love them even before we first hold them in our arms.
It is never too hard for us.
Too late.
Too early.
Too much.
Impossible.

We abandon our own convictions, principles, and the absolute “NEVERs” we once believed in so fervently.

Alongside our regular profession, we acquire another one, for which:
We didn’t study at university.
We didn’t take certification courses.
We didn’t attend seminars.
We didn’t learn from textbooks.
We didn’t have the chance to practice in exercises.
We simply—take it upon ourselves and become a professional in another field. Without formal knowledge. Straight from the heart.

We are—both the most wrong and the most right.
By the usual standards of “rightness.”
And the most right of all, holding in our hands the justification: that we are THEIR Moms.

V.