Thursday proved so eventful in our personal lives that we couldn’t keep with the even more frenetic news of the rest of the world, and Sunday is Mother’s Day, so we decided to republish an essay from ’13 about our beloved Mom.
A recent pleasant spring day stroll through Wichita’s picturesque Riverside Park took us past the spaceship, and once again we were reminded of Mom.
It’s not an actual spaceship, just an antique piece of playground equipment that vaguely resembles a sci-fi B-movie version of one, but it’s real enough that our childhood imagination could take flight in it whenever Mom would haul the kids to the park on a summer’s day. On this day there were no children scampering up the series of ladders to the cockpit, though, a consequence of some do-gooder group’s insistence that the entrance be bolted lest some unattended urchin injure himself on the steel artifice, and the spaceship seemed lonesome without them in its belly. We also felt badly for the park’s children, even though they seemed content on the wood-and-plastic and playground equipment that looked just as dangerous and far less inspiring to us.
Sadder yet was the realization of the societal assumption that the children didn’t have an eagle-eyed mother hovering over to keep them from harm.
No noisy do-gooder groups were needed to get us through childhood. Although we suffered from the usual boyish lack of risk-assessment abilities, ever-vigilant Mom had an uncanny knack for plucking us out of danger at the last possible moment. It could be quite annoying, of course, but in retrospect we can see she also allowed us a glorious degree of freedom that must have been quite nerve-wracking for the poor woman. Mom would become frighteningly ferocious when her children were threatened, a marked contrast to her otherwise ladylike behavior, and she was no less protective when confronted with well-meaning busybodies who would have placed limits on our sense of possibilities.
Pardon us if a sentimental Mother’s Day tribute turns into another political rant, but there’s a lot of collectivist do-gooder nonsense that would be entirely unnecessary if everyone had a mother like ours. Countless children could have been spared the dreary and wasted time of Head Start if they’d only had a mother who sent them off to Kindergarten knowing the alphabet and what the letters looked and sounded like, and able to count well past 10, having memorized the family phone number, and possessing a vocabulary that included “precocious.” Mom saw to it that her children were fed, cleaned, clothed, sheltered, and otherwise cared for, and any intrusive social worker who thought he could have done better would have been in for a hell of a time.
Spend all the trillions you can tax, borrow, or print, but you’ll never fund a social program that is an adequate substitute for a good Mom. Fashionable opinion is fond of an old African adage that “It takes a village to raise a child,” and Hillary Clinton even used it for a book title, but that’s the sort of balderdash that has kept Africa largely poor and backwards. In truth it takes a mother to raise a child, and preferably such a good one as ours. Fathers are important, too, and given current policies that probably requires even more emphasis, but we’ll take that up in June around the time of the U.S. Open Golf Tournament.
This weekend should be devoted to wishing a Happy Mother’s day to all the Moms who have done a fine job of it.
— Bud Norman