“Mom, what’s this?” I pointed to something on David’s tummy. He’d only been home for a couple days and I wanted to learn everything about my new baby brother.
“It’s his umbilical cord. It’ll dry up and fall off in a few days. That’s where we get our belly button.”
I watched everything she did with him, from feeding and burping to changing and cleaning his cloth diapers. Each moment fascinated me and held me spellbound during his infancy.
“Mom, my shirt’s wrinkled.” By that time, David was older and she worked again. I was approaching my teen years and my appearance was important to me, however wrinkle-free fabrics were still years in the future.
“Iron it.” Even if there had been only one child, a mother’s hours are limited. Mom had six of us, plus Dad and herself, competing for her time.
“I don’t know how.”
“It’s time you learned.” She took me to the room with the ironing board and walked me through the entire process. Soon, I was as proficient, if not as quick, as she was.
Mom never stopped. When I needed to sew on a button, she taught me to thread a needle. When I needed a hot drink on a winter night, she showed me how to brew tea. Mom also taught me to cook. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, everything from steak to cake, I learned at her patient hand.
When I left home, I took my knowledge with me. Burp and change a baby? No problem. Iron a shirt? How about 47 one afternoon in basic training? When Sandi and I celebrated her first birthday as a wedded couple, she came home to a steak dinner, a gift-wrapped present and a homemade lemon chiffon layer cake.
Thanks, Mom. I’ll never stop loving you.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.