The word “hero” can mean many things.
When you’re five and think of it, Superman comes to mind.
In the angst-ridden and counterculture-worshipping teenage years, maybe you wore a Che Guevara t-shirt–or one with any number of other revolutionaries–and felt all badass and proud of yourself for being “different” and maybe called one of those people that same word.
Then you become an adult. “Hero” means a first responder. A doctor. A lifesaver. Someone who takes care of the Big Things.
But lost among the big names and People With Important Jobs are a bunch of ladies who deserve that title just as much.
Nowadays, “hero” conjures to mind another life-giving (and taking-away force, if you’re really acting like an asshole)–moms.
Moms are quite simply one of the most-badass subsets of humans on the planet. We may not be able to move mountains or part the seas, but we can cook four dinners simultaneously every night and get kids to comply with the simple wave of a wooden spoon. You know, among other talents.
And with every butt I wipe and lunch I pack, I keep coming back to one conclusion lately: My own mom is my hero.
Here are some overly-simplistic reasons why:
1 – She’s super nice…and has always been patient with my quirks.
I was a very quiet, observant child. I can recall a few occasions when I would plaster myself against her at a dinner party, ear on her sternum, gripping her with the ferocity of a scared cat. (Weeeeeirdo.) Thanks for letting me death-grip you for all those years, mom.
2 – She’s smart.
My mom started in her industry as a secretary and rose to one of the top positions in her company’s branch. She literally kept the wheels turning at her job.
And she worked full-time for most of my childhood, while also managing to attend all my school events and somehow look great doing it. As any mom can attest, achieving even one of these is a crowning glory. So, Mom? Go on with your bad self.
3 – She gamely endures my approximately eleventy-bajillion calls per day wherein I usually tell her precisely nothing of value or interest.
We actually laughed about this the other day after she picked up the phone for my third call–all before 9:30am. “I don’t really have anything to say,” I told her right away. “I just wanted to see what you were doing. Maybe complain a little bit.” You guys—moms are actually okay with this sort of nonsense. What????!
I could go on and on, but you get the picture. Thanks, Mom, for being rad. Everyone else can keep their Supermans. I’ll take my mom—and our thousand pointless conversations—any day.
(And, do you want to laugh? You have to read this post on kids describing why their moms are their heroes. To die for! “My mom is a hero because she has lived on this earth for 30 YEARS. Thirty years! I mean, come on people! That’s, like, basically forever.” …See?)
Who’s your hero? Why do you love or admire her, or him? I’d love to hear all about it in Comments below!
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