Everyone always says, “My mom’s the greatest, my mom’s the best.”
But why should one mom get compared to another? Mom #1 may have the secret ingredients to the fluffiest, most mouth-watering chocolate-chip banana pancakes, while Mom #2 has the perfect gravy for Monday’s Meatloaf Dinner.
All moms have jobs. Some are waitresses, some are teachers, some are cooks, and all moms have the same job.
My mom’s name is Shoshana. In Hebrew, this means “rose,” and she is beautiful, inside and out, like the flower her name holds.
My mom was born in Israel, and her parents were Holocaust survivors. At 8 years old, my mom’s family sailed to the States, where my mom had to learn English. A young girl, just 20, my mom married my dad, and together, they had seven children.
My mom amazes me. She can babysit my two older sisters’ kids, keeping them entertained with the toys she still keeps for them at our house, all while cooking pasta and forming meatballs for the four kids still living at home. My mom needs a bus for transporting all of us to the various places that kids need to go but, a petite woman, at 5’3”, gets around just fine in her Yukon XL.
All of my siblings’ friends, as well as mine, call Shoshana, “Mom.” She welcomes them into our house with a warm smile, a soft hug, and a “You’re not leaving until you eat.” Even if a guest is not hungry, my mom places a plate in front of him/her, and introduces every dish on the table.
My mom labels everything in the refrigerator. Green beans from last night’s dinner, chicken wings from Sunday’s BBQ, even the hotdogs, when they clearly look like hotdogs.
I get scared every time my mom states, “I’m going shopping.” A simple, selfless person, my mom will never shop for herself. Instead, she brings home brown bags filled with multiple bags of chips and popcorn, in addition to various cereals for each individual kid, and maybe 6 half-gallon containers of Breyer’s icecream, a few flavors to feed my dad’s cravings, as well as those of her children.
My mom will bend over backwards, just to make everyone happy. Sometimes it bothers me that she never makes time for herself, and that is when I tell myself, “That’s just who she is.”
This is my mom. My mom is MY greatest; my mom is MY best rose.
Please follow the directions and *like* my story. I wrote it for my mom, and it’s called, “My Greatest, My Best”