by Cindy K. Sproles My mother will be 100 years old in August. Most folks who make it to her age are sporting around a grocery bag of medications. Mom takes a blood pressure pill and a thyroid tablet. That’s it. To be one-hundred, Mother is exceptional. In fact, she’s so exceptional that she turns out a queen-sized quilt every other month. We rent a climate-controlled storage building to house her, over eighty, quilts and wall hangings. None of which Mom will sell. I ofte

by Katie Powner I was in my twenties when I became a mother. My biological sons were born with no complications, and I took for granted that I would know what to do. Not that I had motherhood all figured out, but I believed many things would come naturally. And they did. I didn’t have to learn how to love my boys. I didn’t have to figure out how to be concerned when they were sick. No one had to tell me that I must do whatever it took to make sure they had enough to eat. I

by Ashlee Gadd I am standing at the kitchen counter, spooning banana mix into a muffin tin, when my daughter makes a proposal. “How about dis . . . ?” Presley begins, pausing for dramatic effect. “How about I put four chocolate chips on each muffin because dat’s how old I am?” I smile at her logic. Once every pink polka-dotted liner is filled with batter and topped with exactly four chocolate chips, I place both tins on the middle rack and set a timer. Presley runs ou

by September McCarthy The world has created idealistic versions of what being a mom is. Women seem to be given choices of which version of mom they would “like to be.” Stereotypes come in all shapes and forms: working mother, stay-at-home mother, helicopter mother, soccer mom, devoted mom, and cool mom. Sure, we find our people, our style, our groove. We can choose to stay home or a career, and yet, we are and always will be “mother”—the woman up at night cradling her baby,