"O" is for the void she leaves when gone.
"M" for if I May
Celebrate her day
With a Limerick of All Mothers Marathon.
Welcome to the 1st (annual?) Carnival of Moms or, as it will forever be known on this blog, the Limerick of All Mothers Marathon. I have invited a number of bloggers more talented than I (and certainly those hacks at Hallmark) to help me create, if not the best, at least the wordiest Mothers’ Day card ever. I was overwhelmed by the response and touched to learn that so many of them had mothers too. Like many a greeting card you may find some humor, some poignancy and maybe even some schmaltz (see above rhyme) but, as far as I can tell, there are no fart jokes. So take your time browsing and pick out whatever you like but please don’t switch the envelopes.
It rhymes with “balm” or “bomb”
Yes, it seems it’s much easier for we sons to idealize the relationship. Maybe it’s the Oedipus thing, but just wait until Father’s Day.
Graham from Point2Point who is a talented limerickist and writer sent this link to a fine quartet of Mother’s Day limericks.
Aparna, who may be my alter-ego in India, with his newsmiricks blog provided this trio:
On this truth, I am ready to swear,
That since God could not be everywhere,
He fashioned these others,
And titling them 'mothers',
Gave them part of his creation to bear!
She held you nine months in her tummy,
Was excited when you called her 'mummy'.
She hugged and she scolded,
You were nurtured and moulded,
And she made all those cookies, real yummy!
You may feel you don't owe her a dime,
She's a nag, who's now well past her prime.
But remember those years,
When she hugged off your fears,
On this day, give her a gift -- of your time.
Robert Duplantier, who has actually figured out a way to make money writing limericks, generously contributed five of his which may be found among many others on his Politickles website.
"We bought goofy games to play
And weird-smelling modeling clay,
Plus lots of toys
That make loud noise,
To give Mom on Mother's Day."
Someone started a silly rumor
About Mother's sense of humor:
Seems she'd sworn
'Til the day I was born
That she planned to call me "Tumor."
How the concept contributes to mirth:
This idea that our mother's the earth!
Is your Mom fat and round,
Several septillion pounds,
With a 25,000-mile girth?
The fertility clinic messed up
And assigned to my wife the wrong "cup":
Thanks to their help,
She delivered a whelp
And I'm now the proud pop of a pup!
There's no better month than June
For a second honeymoon,
So it's off to Niagara
With a quart of Viagra
And an extra-large measuring spoon!
One of Aparna’s readers, Padmaja was kind enough to send this little ditty:
Do we need Mother's Day
To bring up the urge to say,
Ma, I love you n thank you
'Cos you are one of the few
With whom I always have my way!
Jeff at Have Coffee Will Write got the idea this was a contest. Maybe I’ll have to send him a yellowing copy of the Savant’s chap book, Four-year Funk for these acerbic selections:
Limerick of All Mothers I
Limerick of All Mothers II
Limerick of All Mothers III
Or maybe he should just cut back on the caffeine.
What’s it like growing up with an Italian mother? Tony at The Blast Furnace will tell you. He also passed along this advice for using limericks as a public speaking tool:
Funny story -- about 10-12 years ago, as part of a "Free Speech Day" celebration at Youngstown State, I was invited to participate in a reading sponsored by the English department. Most of the other participants in the event were very serious about the whole thing, but I couldn't shake Tom Lehrer's "dirty books are fun" quote out of my head for about a week prior to the reading. Determined to make people laugh (and squirm), I brought with me a tome of baudy limericks from the 1960's I borrowed from my mom with some of my favorites earmarked.
And mourning becomes Electra
Daughters and mothers seem to share a different perspective. Maybe that is because they can be, and often are, both.
One of my favorite blogs, when I find time to read them, is Texas Trifles. The very talented writer and proprietor, Cowtown Pattie, took aim and hit her mark.
An Ode to Joyce
My personal birth-giver is neither saccarine nor sour
And much too onery for any ivory tower
Her razor-sharp tongue filets to the bone
Never softening words, the meaning well honed
Who else but "the Joyce" could wield such maternal power?
(*Aye, tis true my mom is a thorny burr in my side, but I love her!)
Mad Kane, the matter to Bob Duplantier’s anti-matter, offers up this Mother’s Day Limerick. Check out the “Secret Shopper” post and her humorous political verse while you’re at it.
Jill, who Writes Like She Talks, and, unlike the Savant, doesn’t speak in rhyme, still sent along these two offerings:
There once was a mother named Jill
Whose life mirrored Sysiphus and the hill
Her three kids she did push
Til her brain was but mush
Yet her love for them grew even still.
Oh mother what color is your hair
I know it was once naturally fair
I swore that I wouldn't
Cause I always thought you shouldn't
But now that I do? What a scare.
Annie has been taking into consideration how that relationship with mom goes better with the right wine.
Thanks to Jude from the Hinterlands of Australia for reminding us about Remembering our mothers even when they no longer remember us.
Elaine of Kaliliy bravely shares the reality of being the primary caregiver to a parent who has never been your best friend.
Tamar lets us take in the unique wisdom of African-American mothers from a book given by a friend.
Finally, despite being in the midst of a move to Maine from NYC, Ronni sends A Mother's Last Best Lesson, a three month series of posts about her mother’s final days.
I would like to finish this marathon on a personal, but lighter, note that has meaning in my family but may resonate for some other readers as well.
Now, Mom, so you'll know that it's me
I'll recall your ubiquitous plea:
Whenever they fought,
Your children were taught,
"Little birds in their nests will agree."
This phrase, (actually "birds in their little nests agree") purportedly borrowed from Little Women, (though harder to find there than a solution to the Da Vinci Code) was uttered, with perfect timing by my mother, for years in the midst of nearly every sibling brawl. The words, in their simple inanity, stunned my sisters and myself into total silence and brought even the most virulent disagreement to a sudden halt.
Even at a very young age, we were dumbfounded by such triteness coming from the mouth of this, otherwise, intelligent and well-spoken woman. We were convinced that this must surely be an early symptom of some rare, wasting "jungle" disease caused by the bite of an insect smaller than a grain of kosher salt and whose name could only be pronounced using a series of tongue clicks and guttural burps. Needless to say, our other concerns of the moment paled by comparison and we would rush, in unison, to her side to comfort and reassure her. Such is the wisdom of a mother.
Thank you, Mom, and, on that, I think we "birds" all agree.
Thanks to all who helped publicize this effort including George at Brewed Fresh Daily.