The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

[phuloi]

To all those who have quietly,unselfishly and lovingly devoted their lives to nurturing and loving us,as well as to those that are doing the same today...HAPPY MOTHER`S DAY!

[Arrow]

[SEATJERKER]

...otherwise we all wouldn't be here now... raise a toast, and give um lots of hugs today...

[frisco-kid]

About the first week of JUL67. I've been home on leave for about a week. Two weeks, or so, before then I had been on a patrol near Duc Pho, RVN.

It's about 2:00AM, and Don and some other guys have just dropped me off at the house. We were just getting back from "The City", where my friends had taken me to see Haight-Ashbury first hand. It had come into being while I was gone. What a place! We walked around drinking cheap wine out of a paper bag. We stopped and listened to street musicians on the corners, where strangers would pass you a joint that was making the rounds. A couple of hippie chicks asked us for a ride to a party in Daly City. We get some beer and wine, and head down the penninsula. We drop the hippie chicks off at their party, after turning down an invitation to go in.

It's a beautiful, warm summer night and we decide to drive down El Camino Real to San Carlos, instead of the freeway. I'm riding shotgun in Don's '50 Ford, drinking beer. By the time we pull up in front of my house, I'm pretty shit-faced. I get to the front door and fumble with the key. I quietly go across the living room, not wanting to wake up my parents or my sisters and brother. I go down the hall to my room, which is directly across from my parents. My door has been closed all day and as I enter, I get a blast of heat from the sealed room. The moon is shining, casting strange shadows and silhoettes on the walls. As I enter, there's a pole lamp on my right with a conical shaped shade on it. WHAT THE...?! I punch it, knocking it over to the floor with a crash. The light is flicked on, and I turn to see my parents standing in the doorway, looking at me straddling the floor lamp with my fists clenched.
My Dad says "What the Hell is going on?"
My Mom is looking at my face, and a scared/worried look come across her face.
"It's okay, Mom."
My Dad gently pulls her back through the door, but not before I see her eyes well up with tears.
After I get undressed and into bed, my Mom quietly comes into my room and sits on the edge of my bed.
"It's not okay, is it Tom?"
"No, not always, Mom."
She strokes my face with a cool hand, pulls my blanket up to my chin, and kisses my forehead "Good Night."

Niether of my parents ever brought the incident up again. For a long time afterwards I would catch my Mom looking at me with that worried look in her eye, sometimes looking like she would burst into tears any moment. I always felt guilty for puting that look in her eyes.

It's okay, Mom.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, AND I LOVE YOU.

[Keith_Hixson]

My Biological Mother died two days after I was born from child birth complications. My Father had some friends that lived on a dairy farm way out in the sticks. They said would take care of my twin brother and I. Two days after I was born I was living on a dairy farm with an older childless couple in their 50's. 18 years later I left for Calif. to go to College via a summer job at NASA (Moffett Field Ames Reseach Center as a "helper" in the welding and plumbing department My Foster Mother was the only mother I ever knew. She changed me, corrected me, supported me and loved me. She even told my wife when we got married that if anything ever happened in our marriage that Susan could come and live with her. That was her warped humor way of saying you chose the right one, which I did. She died at 87 of alzheimers. A wonderful kind lady with a strange warped humor which she passed on to me. Couldn't have a better mother.

Happy Mother's Day!!!!

[phuloi]

I can`t begin to imagine what a mother must feel as she sends her son off to war.The fear and uncertainty mixed with pride has to be nearly overwhelming for them.I can remember my grandmother`s eyes tearing up as she spoke of my dad and uncle John coming home as "changed" or "never the same" after the war...And I recall,with difficulty,my Mom asking "What happened to you over there?" For 34 years now I`ve asked myself what might have been had I told her about my fear,about the smell of burning flesh in my hands,about death...No.She didn`t need to know any of that-it was mine to keep.But she knew..she knew.God bless my Mom and all of your Moms. RIP,Mom..I love you

[Keith_Hixson]

My Foster mother had an adopted son. He served in the Pacific in WW II. Then was called up to serve in Korea. When I was drafted I know she didn't like it. It must bring a lot of apprehension and pain to a mother's heart.

Keith

[Arrow]

[DMZ-LT]

My Mother died 27 years ago of breast cancer. All of you that got Moms still alive better tell they you love them today !

[Packo]

What great stories of love, courage, and commitment. My mom had 3 boys, the twins, and me. One of the twins left for the Navy 7 days after I left for the Army. She went in just over a week from 3 boys at home to one. She told me it was one of the toughest times in her life. The toughest came when I got in-country, and Bill was on small spy ships like the Pueblo off the coast of N.Vietnam, N.Korea, Red China, and the USSR. She relates that those were the most horrible days of her life.

Frisco...that story you told spiked a memory. I was visiting mom not long after Vietnam. During a heavy duty thunderstorm I was standing by the window watching when a trasformer right out back blew. All I remember is the flash.....the next memory was being on the floor looking up at my mother crying. Apparently when the flash went, the power, of course went out, and immediately she heard me hit the floor screaming that I was hit. I remember none of it. I told mom that it was all right....but like my friend Frisco, she has always known it was quite all right.

Mom...already talked with you and sent you flowers but to you and all the other moms.....hope your day was great....I Love You!

Thanks all for those special stories.

Packo