Column: Thoughts from Dr. Joe: On grasping the sanctity of motherhood
Frankie G. was a caporegime, the captain of a group of soldiers who broke knuckles for the local crime boss, Mr. V., the godfather of the North Bronx. Frankie was a bad dude. On his right arm he had tats of a dagger, a skull, and the inscription, cattivo fino al midollo (bad to the bone). On his left arm, closest to his heart, there was a red heart with the word love inscribed in the middle. Underneath was imprinted “Mother.”
I never understood Frankie’s juxtaposed persona. However, I did understand that Frankie G. loved his mother to the moon and back.
Regardless of circumstance, this individual we call “Mother” or “Mom” is capable of eliciting the deepest human emotion.
This Sunday is Mother’s Day. We need a special day to glorify an extraordinary lady because we are unable to see the forest through the trees. Better said, we live, breathe and die in the midst of miracles we never fully see. One such miracle is a mother’s love. During the peak of a mother’s vitality she’s often overlooked, and all we see is a blur of activity, sentimentality and a list of admonitions. The vitality that she brings and gives is meant for us. It’s what makes us who we are.
According to Greek mythology, during the reign of the great god Zeus, mothers loved their children so much that they ate them. Zeus’ wife, Hera, the goddess of family, fearing the extinction of humanity, decided to intervene. She sent a lightning bolt from Mount Olympia that reduced a mother’s love 99.99999%; subsequently, humanity survived. Mothers no longer ate their children. Do you get it? Do you see the absolute depth of a mother’s love?
The above story is root to the old axiom where one would tell a child, “You are so precious, I could just eat you.”
As a kid, I didn’t understand the true significance of my mother. While growing up, life moves quickly. It’s when you get older that you wish you had more time. You don’t know what you’ve lost till it’s gone.
My mom was a coal miner’s daughter, born in 1909 in a holler along the Monongahela River in West Virginia. She quit school in the sixth grade to sew clothes and help the family subsist. At 12, she drove a truck delivering ice to the railroad. She spoke fluent Italian and eventually had her own radio show called the “Italian Hour,” singing Italian songs to the ethnic Western Pennsylvania coal miners.
She could embroider, quilt and make spaghetti sauce. She worked seven days a week in our family deli and took no guff from the local tough guys.
I really never knew her essence. She was just Mom. Well, there’s the irony. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be with mothers. They move about us in such a whirlwind of motion, giving constantly. They’re the first image that stamps itself on the unwritten page of the young child’s mind.
It is a mother’s caress that first awakens our sense of security; her kiss, the first realization of affection; her sympathy and tenderness, the first assurance that there is love in the world. The peace of our very human soul is built upon our relationship with our mother.
Many years ago, during my darkest moments, I was saved by the image of my mom.
The essence of this woman is not expressed in a card. Today the beauty of motherhood is lost in ritual. On Mother’s Day, the best gift is not the gift that we give to Mom, it’s the gift that we give to ourselves, which is simply grasping the sanctity of motherhood and appreciating this extraordinary human being.
To all our mothers: Happy Mothers’ Day. You are extraordinary!
JOE PUGLIA is a practicing counselor, a retired professor of education and a former officer in the Marines. Reach him at doctorjoe@ymail.com. Visit his website at doctorjoe.us.
