Celebrating the awesome privilege of being married to a mother

I owe my wife about 15 hanging flower baskets.

It's an inside Mother's Day joke between us. For years, I would give her a lame little homemade "gift certificate" to pick out a hanging basket of her choice. But somehow we rarely got around to actually choosing one. We laugh about it every year; well, I laugh, and I sure hope she's laughing, too.

I suppose that's sort of symbolic of mothers' lot in life -- loved and appreciated, though not appreciated nearly enough. (Yes, I realize some may see this anecdote as symbolic of a husband's cheapness, unreliability and laziness, but this is my blog, so I'll decide on the symbolism herein, OK?)

I know some great mothers -- not just mine and my wife, but also women who I knew in high school or college who, if you had told me 30 years ago would bear children one day, four words would have come to mind: Ward of the state. (As for contemplating fatherhood for us man children back then, are you kidding me? Most of us are just damn lucky that a woman looked at us, sighed heavily and said, "A fixer-upper for sure, but I think I can work with this.")

I suppose most women gain a greater appreciation of their own mothers if they become one. And I believe many men do so, too, if their wives become mothers.

See, I love, love, love being a father. But I love just as much being married to a mother. I think they're two different things, though I'm not sure I can articulate it.

Watching the woman I fell in love with 30 years ago give birth to and raise our children, having her life molded and changed by them as much as she's molded and changed theirs, is quite simply the most remarkable experience of my life. It's a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth.

I don't want to overstate this. I don't sit there and stare at my wife adoringly for hours on end as she mothers our children. And if I had tried, it wouldn't have lasted long. No doubt, she'd have snapped at me, "for God's sake, quit sitting around and help me out, would ya?" I would have said, "I'm just adoring you as a mother." And she would have responded, "No, you're not, you're just trying to get out of work. Adore later, take care of that diaper now."

I know the Hallmark view of mothers' love is gentleness, softness and warmth. It is that, for sure. But "fierce" is the word that comes to mind. The fiercest force there is, and not to be trifled with.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night -- as I'm sure other dads do, too -- and find my wife wide awake, clearly worrying. Sometimes she can't articulate why, though I know: Perhaps it's a specific worry about a specific child, or perhaps it's a more general fretting for all of them. I turn over and go back to sleep, confident she's on it.

I have come to believe that a mother's worry, especially the overnight, sleepless kind, must have a cosmic power; it rises into the atmosphere and is transformed there into positive karma for children. Not just her own children, but children everywhere, including those who don't have a mom. I can only hope a father's ability to sleep through mom's worrying counts for something, too.

I cannot sufficiently express my admiration and love for my own mother, or for my wife as the mother of our four children. But you know what? I'm gonna try. For starters, I think I'll give my wife a gift certificate for TWO hanging baskets this year.