She does not hear the car alarm, the neighbor's music, or the noise of playing children,
But from the other end of the house, in the middle of the night, she will hear a child's slightest whimper
She may not comprehend how to use the VCR or the computer,
But she understands a child's heart whenever it hurts.
She may be too weak and exhausted to carry groceries in from the car,
But she is strong enough to intimidate any who threaten her children.
She may not remember where she put her keys or the reason she walked into a room,
But she never forgets the wonderful things her children do and say.
Her clothes aren't so perfect – they're stained by baby's burps and last month's lasagna,
But each stain is a badge of love and service equal to any won by a soldier.
All she sees are the lines and wrinkles in her hands, and longs for their youthful appearance,
But she forgets their wear speaks of love, devotion, and sacrifice.
She sighs and moans when she cannot fit into the clothes of her youth,
But her shape and stretch marks are like battle scars which say, "Kids, you were worth it!"
The mirror tells her that her eyes lack sparkle,
But the bags and fatigue betray love that burns bright all night long.
She is haunted sometimes by what she could have been,
But she equips generations and shapes the world's future.
She doesn't trust enough to let you near the strange dog or to climb to the tip top branch,
But she believes in you when you are discouraged and full of self doubt.
She regrets her failures, mourns her anger, and dreads she is warping her children's psyches,
But she so tightly bonds her children to her heart that they will grow up, but not away.