Mom

Mom is a rooster, up in the wee dark hours telling everyone to get out of bed and get moving.

Mom is a homemade dress and a tuna fish sandwich--two things the other kids ridicule but secretly admire.

Mom is the judge, the jury, and the lead detective, making tough decisions based on the information offered as well as the information she suspects was withheld.

Mom is the Magic 8 Ball, foreseeing the future and warning of dangers ahead.

Mom is a game of Twenty Questions:  "Where did you go?"  Who all was there?  What did you do?Who drove?  What did you eat?  How much did you spend?"

Mom is a radar detector, a microphone, an enigma decoder: seeing and hearing off-the-grid conversations and "reading" body language better than a private investigator.

Mom is a field of red tulips and pink peonies (pronounced pee-o-neez), blossoming beautifully in the spring, looking forward to an action-packed summer.

Mom is a floppy hat, huge sunglasses, and "Did you get sunscreen on your nose?" at the pool or beach.

Mom is a pat on the back for a job well done and praise withheld in the face of a half-"hearted" effort.

Mom is a warm kitchen that has been open since six, the counter-tops filled with pies, cookies, and the makings of our next hearty meal.

Mom is an unexpected snort in the middle of a laugh, causing contagious giggles that spread through the house.

Mom is a brag letter at Christmas, the champion of all things family, our greatest advocate, our biggest defender, our most vocal fan.

And now, as she observes from beyond, I pray she is nothing less than a watchful angel who wears the robes of satisfaction and contentedness--a woman proud of her posterity.