My mother, my heroine

In the spirit of National Women’s History Month, I’ll take a few minutes to mention a heroine you may not know of.
This woman is not nationally known. She hasn’t won awards, discovered land or changed the world. She has, however, changed my world. And that makes her pretty heroic in my book.
It’s only natural that my heroine is my mother. She’s been a fighter since the moment she left the womb.
At five months and two weeks, the eager little one made her unexpected appearance into the world. She was tiny. Six inches long and a pound and a half heavy, to be exact. Her underdeveloped organs were not strong enough for survival, doctors said. But mom was strong.
Grandma took her home. She placed mom under covers and a lamp to keep her warm. She carefully fed her with a dropper. When people from the media knocked on the door, grandma shooed them away. There was no way anyone would make money off her baby.
They didn’t. No one but my grandparents and six aunts and uncles saw my mom as she struggled to survive. And survive she did. Grandma named her Milagros, which means miracle in Spanish.
Fifty-something years later (it’s bad manners to reveal a lady’s age), mom is more than a miracle. She’s an inspiration, a great mother and a heroine.
She calls me everyday to ask me if I’ve eaten well. She gives the greatest hugs, still buys me colorful socks and occassionally sticks a baked sweet in my purse before I leave her house. Last week, it was a piece of butter cake wrapped in foil.
So, if you’re a mom, treat your kids to something sweet today. Buy them colorful socks and hug them tight. And if you’re a daughter, call your mom. Let her know she’s your heroine. Mom, you’re mine.