My Idol Is Mom

Why can't we just live off of long Jolly Rancher flat, apple-sugary rectangles which gave us children the "gaming high" of today's young population? A time without cellular restrictions and a time teeming with a knowledge of Encyclopedias Brittanicas. Look up the mammals.

You missed out on the bike rides with quality neighbors until dusk, my beauties. Mis corazones. Where are the cinnamon- flavored toothpicks after the Fall of Innocence devoured our mobile-abiding culture in a single absorbing gulp. Oh, to be a mom.

Mothers.

Take notes. Reach every child, most importantly the ones you gave life to, and tell them that they will be just fine. A blip is nothing in a mom-filled universe. Baby wipes, sticky yawns, and Disney promises are nothing to this loving creature.

Sirens' songs will be written about you in The Great Library of Alexandria. It was was destroyed in a jealous fit by the ancients all of those countless, cultured years ago. Worry not. The stories are still written by me and you now. They will transcend your expectations.

I dare you to have a drag race in your glittering, flecked, spicy-red car with the souled presence of Eve, Mary, and Mother Teresa! Bring it and own it. For yourself; but more importantly, historically and timely. Dedicate the victory to your legacy.

Make the hourglass sands of time melt effortlessly into their family glass-bottomed boat. Watch for the danger but seek the possibilities that are displayed in front of you like the cheerful, inviting Poker cards in a Casino.

You matter!

Mom to thought, birth, and then a forever; honored to be called Yours. Etched always with a waiting rigor that is to be to be envied by all. It matters not who wins that drag race. You are my child.