This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf full of Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It’s OK honey, Mommy’s here."
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at football or soccer games, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it for the World!”
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies; and for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn’t.
This is for all the mothers who read "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then read it again, "Just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own are at home.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them.
For all the mothers who bite their lips sometimes until they bleed--when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see. And for the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.
This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children’s graves.
This is for mothers of children with severe limitations. Your freedom has been exchanged for cherished ...
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