Faces of Mom - hire a bull ride machine

I grew up with my mother. . .
When my father was gone. .
Ocean in. .
I am not the only child in my family, but I often have this feeling, not just when I live with my mom, but sometimes when my father is under the sea, he also sits in a submarine.
I'm not the only kid at home, but I often have this feeling, not just when I lock my sister in the basement, my mom is very good at making me feel like the best pumpkin.
My mother is a working mother.
She scrubbed the floor for me, washed our clothes, and sometimes even finished my science project.
I don't remember her just sitting there.
If she is not at home, she will cry in a blood drive, elementary school or outside because she has just made another dent in the car.
There are many dents in our car.
She is a woman with many different faces.
I call them look. I know all of them.
It's a handy thing as a child like me, especially if her expression involves my back end and left hand.
When the children left, the mother's house was empty and she found a real job in the town.
Although this is a respectable workplace, I never wanted to visit her there during her duty.
One day, however, I had to do so.
I was troubled by what she did;
Instead, it was the look on her face and I knew I had to see her look when they brought me in.
My mom is in charge of the emergency room at the local hospital.
She sees a lot of things every day that fall on the counter and make a mess.
Something like blood and throwingup and tears.
She is good at her work because she is a strong woman.
I know too.
She helped me beat Billy Whitehead in the fourth grade; he was a bully.
Besides talking about children, my mother is very strong and can bear a lot.
Then she acted as if every little guy through those mechanical doors was hers.
I 've even seen her tell the big crying men to sit down and grow up if they complain about having to wait.
I remember what she used to do with those thermometers.
That day, when I slipped down from the wall in the emergency room and fought desperately against the effects of shock, I tried to give her a smile.
Even though the worries in her eyes tell me that my pale appearance can't lie to her.
While the injury on my hand is not that serious, I still want to know when the world around me starts to darken.
Although I want to say that my mother is very different from other people's mothers.
I want to say that she is the best mother in the world, but where will my wife be?
Married men hate this dilemma because even discussing it only means sleeping on the couch or going to one of those small shops. x94 Ugh.
As I grew older, I noticed that my wife grew the same as my mom, which scared me.
I thought I had seen every expression I had to see at least once.
I have a mother and I have a wife and God has given me a thirteen year old for the extra torment of my lifeyear-
The old daughter's face is always twisted into something.
Of course, I know that all looks are wrong, but I am always wrong. the old, fat and bald ones just ask my daughter.
Or don't ask her;
She will tell you anyway.
I know it looks better than most people, and I'm very good at calming down the tension.
I even said I was an expert.
If a woman is sad, I can do a little cheer
Or, at least, make her crazy enough to kick me.
Face it: I'm lucky.
But the problem as an expert is that you will feel humble sooner or later.
There is an expression on the mother's face that the child will never see, and I am happy for that.
The first time I saw it at the funeral the other day, it almost broke my heart.
The children see all the looks that the mother has to offer, except the one they wear before you die.
I can't find words to speak to this woman, and my eyes can't find the courage to leave the ground.
I am not alone in the shadow of cowardice, which tells me she is.
Although someone else has shared her experience, she will still be alone.
Time will heal everything the priest says, but nothing is the same.
Everyone knows.
When I consider my own fragile relationship with my mother, it is clear to me that this distance will eventually separate us.
I want to know, who of us will cross this gap first?
I will never be like a woman at a funeral, because I don't know the mother's connection between myself and the child, only how the child feels about the mother.
Does a child look different from what I saw?
I don't know, I don't want.
Denial will only extend a weak hand in real life, but it will also make its painful edge softer.
Am I ready for the arrival of this face?
Will getting ready allow me to avoid sliding black from the wall again?
Maybe, but I'm afraid this hug will take me to the darkness I want to avoid.
If I listen attentively, I know there is only one way in this life.
The road is now, and I know my mother is there, and I will walk with her to the end of the road.
If I don't appreciate what life has given me, anything else can be a lie or a sin: my mother.