FLINT - Sunday is Mother's Day, and I have a confession: I wouldn't want to be a mom for anything in the world. They work too hard.
Of course, to them - to the best of them, anyway - it's not work. It's love - even if it often feels like work. Does that make sense?
Well, it probably does if you're a mom. To the rest of us - i.e. guys/dads - we love our kids, of course. And we work hard to provide for them, nurture them and all that.
But if we're being honest, most of us would admit that our efforts pale in comparison to moms. I know this for a fact, in fact.
This week, I assigned a work world job title to just a few of the tasks performed on behalf of our three children by the lovely yet formidable Marcia. She was:
A chauffeur All three of our children are teenagers, meaning our minivan ought to have MTA - Mom Transit Authority - stenciled on the side.
As she left to take the youngest and his friends to a movie, I said to her the other day, "How come we don't have social lives anymore?" She said, "Because they do." Ah. Got it.
A paramedic At about 1:30 Tuesday morning, we were awakened - or rather, she was awakened, it would take a brass band to wake me - by a soft moan from the kid's bathroom. It was Henry, our youngest, who, while at the aforementioned movie, had ingested a 20-ounce blue slushy and neon orange theater nachos.
Hearing this, Marcia leapt from bed like Batman spotting the bat signal. Hollering "I'm coming, baby! I'm coming!" she was dressed and to Henry within two seconds, whereupon he threw up colorful goo all over her.
My reaction would have been, "What the couldn't you have used the wastebasket? It's right there!" Hers was, "Oh, my sweet boy," as she petted his hair.
A secretary There are five people in our house with busy work, school and personal schedules. She juggles them all and keeps things moving with a kind but firm hand. "You, get studying - you have a quiz tomorrow. You, you have a doctor's appointment at 9 tomorrow. I'll pick you up at the entrance by the flag pole. You, your boss called. Call her back." We return the favor by getting her nothing for Secretaries Day.
A short order cook By teen law, teenagers are required to not like what the other teenagers in the house like. Nor are they allowed to eat at the same time. Personally, I'd cook one thing and let them eat it or not when and if they found time. Marcia, however, worries about something called "nutrition," so she makes sure they get fed something healthy whenever they have time to eat. It's weird.
A nurse Our oldest was in a teenager's natural position, sprawled across the couch watching TV. I was sitting next to him. Everything seemed normal. Marcia wordlessly entered the room from the kitchen and reached over the couch to feel his forehead.
"I thought so," she said.
I looked at her puzzled.
"He's got a fever."
I looked at him. He seemed fine to me.
"You sick, Sam?" I said.
"I dunno," he mumbled.
The thermometer settled it. He had a 100 degree temperature. How she knew is beyond me.
Maybe there's a reason they call it a ther-mom- eter.
Happy Mother's Day.
EDITOR'S NOTE - Andy Heller, an award-winning columnist for The Flint Journal, appears weekly in the Daily Press. He graduated from Escanaba Area High School in 1979. For more of his work, visit his blog at blog.mlive.com/flintjournal/aheller.