Hey, to all you kids out there! It doesn’t matter how old you are, you are still your mama’s kid. I just want to remind you that Mother’s Day is today, May 11.

Believe it or not, your mother began life as a normal baby, much like you. She grew up and spent her childhood in the same oblivious places as you have spent yours. Somewhere along the way she grew from the wide-eyed wonderment of childhood and stepped into the awkwardness of her teen years.

It wasn’t until she fell in love, married and found herself thinking of a name for you, her unborn baby, that she suddenly began acquiring those “motherly traits.” You know the ones I’m talking about. Super vision (eyes in the back of her head); Super hearing, (words muttered under your breath); Super smell, (dirty socks and underwear). When your sibling screams, “Mother, he’s touching me,” chances are your mother already knows. Without turning her head, she saw you making faces at him as you sat in the back seat of the car

These aren’t bonus senses; they are instincts for her survival. If it weren’t for them, mothers would be classified as just plain mortals rather than superhumans. Once a woman has gone from childhood, through adolescence and into motherhood, nothing is ever the same. The word “mother” is unique in any language. They have a role in life that no other has — nor do many want, for that matter. Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. It encompasses a myriad of tangibles and intangibles.

When I was 22 years old I found myself staring at my firstborn in utter amazement. Or was that amusement? I don’t really remember for sure. All I remember is this wonder of nature had the cutest wiggly toes, biggest blue eyes and tiny fingers that wrapped right around my heart. Sometime within a 10-year span I found myself with four such creatures and I was soon up to my garter belt in runny noses and poopy diapers. I should have bought stock in Kimberly-Clark. What was I thinking?

As they grew, I went from enjoying in-depth, meaningful conversations with friends to babbling like an idiot trying to communicate with toddlers. Somewhere along the way I lost the life I thought I had. These little pigmies consumed my whole being. My mother would visit and tell me to quit worrying about them, that they were just normal children and would survive. I confided in her that I really wasn’t worried about them. I was just worried about my survival!

I chauffeured them back and forth to school, band practice, ballgames music and golf lessons, dances, parties, doctor and dental appointments, etc. You know the routine. And, it seemed I never had enough groceries in the house. I finally figured out that our house was the gathering place for all their friends. My kitchen was always buzzing with activity. If I wasn’t cooking a meal, the kids were making peanut brittle and fudge or popping corn. At one point I seriously considered having my appliances removed and installing vending machines. I figured I could make enough money to send them all to college.

We all went through the ups and downs of the “terrible twos” and the “tacky teens.” Growing pains were very real. They grew, and I had the pains. Through it all, each managed to learn the basic life skills: bicycle riding, skating, spelling, math, etc. Tying shoes and hygiene were the exceptions.One son is left-handed and I finally enlisted a left-handed friend to teach him how to tie his shoes. Being dyslexic he still sees things backwards, but at least he can deal with it now. They each had their own thoughts about hygiene. The oldest would wear new jeans, but they had to be dirty; so much so that they were stiff enough to stand in the corner when he took them off. The daughter was squeaky clean. The third child had that clean-cut but cluttered look and bad smelly socks! The fourth was just an all-around mess. He never hung a wet towel up (or anything else for that matter) but would just pitch stuff in the bottom of his closet. He finally quit when I taught him to do his own laundry.

One day I missed a prized dish I had sitting on a table in the family room. No one seemed to know where it was. I just disappeared. I finally quit looking for it. Several years passed before the youngest confessed. He was hitting his golf balls in the house when one hit the dish and smashed it to smithereens. He and his brother buried it in the backyard. I’ve since learned of several other happenings that occurred without my knowing about them.

The rewards of motherhood are great if a mother can survive rearing her children. For instance: When my daughter graduated from high school, and was employed full time, she purchased her first vehicle. Neil Diamond was in concert and she called and told me she had tickets for both of us. Arrangements were made that she would come by the house and I would drive.

When she arrived, I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. She kept telling me it didn’t matter; I could just drive her car. When I opened the door to leave, I discovered she not only had my car keys, she had rented a limousine to take us to the concert in downtown Houston.

My little urchins have grown up and now have pigmies of their own. The other day I called my youngest to have a meaningful in-depth conversation. He was babbling like an idiot.

Since I’m not his toddler, I politely told him I would call back later and quickly hung up. Paybacks are fun, aren’t they? What goes around, comes around and I’m enjoying it four times over.

If mothers ever decide to begin a “Mothers’ Rights Movement.” it would certainly stir up some controversy in Washington. The politicians wouldn’t know how to handle scores of women marching for a Mothers’ Bill of Rights. But, that will never happen. Mothers and grandmothers everywhere are much too busy mothering their offspring to stage a march of any kind. Mothers are America’s secret weapon. No politician worth his or her salt anywhere in the entire U.S. would want to challenge another on any issue.

It’s a losing proposition. Mothers are a force to be reckoned with. They have the innate ability to bargain like no one else. The other day I heard about one mother who got a new Jeep for her son. There have been times I wished I could make a trade like that.

This year, don’t give your mom chocolate. She’s wiped enough of that stuff off your face and grubby hands. Instead, give her a gift card for a full body massage at the spa or rent her favorite movie, sit her in her favorite chair, prop her feet up, order pizza and be sure you turn her phone off. Then, leave the house. She doesn’t need you around. She just needs some R&R.

Email Betty Heath at begeheath690@aol.com.