What Moms Do

"I’ll be right in," Sandi said, “I just want to make sure the boys are all right.”

On the coldest night of the year, I didn’t blame her for ensuring the boys were covered. It’s just part of being a mom. As I waited, I thought on my mother and all the things she did for me. I was too young to thank her then and, now that she’s gone, it’s too late to thank her for this one of her many miracles.

Soundly asleep one winter evening, I woke early for no particular reason. Despite the nightlight, though, it was too dark too see. Terror struck me as I realized that I couldn’t see! In a panic, I scrambled from my bed.

“I can’t see! I can’t see!” I screamed as I stumbled into the hall.

Mom flew up the stairs. I heard her voice in the blackness and felt the soft touch of her hands.

“What’s the matter?” she asked calmly, concern plain in her voice.

“I can’t see,” I cried.

Mom took me by the hand and pulled me into the bathroom, but, irrationally convinced that I would walk into a wall, I resisted every step. She sat me down and bathed my eyes with a warm washcloth. My eyelids fluttered open and I saw my mother leaning anxiously over me. More importantly, I could see again and relief flooded through me.

“It was just crust,” she soothed, “It dried and stuck your eyelids together.”

Too tired and too young to thank her, I returned to bed and a deep sleep. Neither of us ever spoke of the miracle when she restored my sight. But then, miracles, expected without question and accepted without thanks, are only daily duty for a mom. It’s just what moms do.

Bill Bartlett lives in Belton with his wife, Sandi, and their two sons.