You can hear a kitten’s piccolo meow from deep space.
You can hear Hips‘s galumphing gallop all the way to Glockamora.
But while youth and ego shout, the meek let their lives speak.
They will never toot their own horns. So let’s hear it for the mamas.
Let’s hear it for Hope, who knows where to find joy.
Joy is in the playpen where her quadruplet kids cuddle. Joy is in the silly sounds of their sloppy slurps as they discover wet food.
Joy is in the gift of her own soft body, which becomes their blanket and beacon and … bakery. (The number of biscuits kneaded into Hope’s belly exceeds the sum total of stars.)
Joy is in Hope’s graceful legs as she hugs her kittens. You could call it instinct. You could call it nature. But you would stop mid-sentence at the sight of Hope. For Hope, motherhood is not duty, but delight. Behold the smiling cat, and you will begin to understand joy.
Let’s hear it for Buffy, born to slay fears.
She is as grey as a mourning dove, and she keeps her kittens safe from grief. They will get to bring their innocence on the long ride to adulthood. They will get to stay kittens, even if they grow to be as big as Baby or as bovine as Moo Moo.
They will get to love their lives for their whole lives long, because their mama made it easy to believe the world is kind.
Let’s hear it for Mistletoe, whose kisses were not reserved for the robust.
She had two kittens. Holly was “normal.” Berry had spina bifida. Holly’s legs were long and strong. Berry’s back end curled into a question. Holly knew the answer.
Both of her kittens were perfect.
Mistletoe lavished each one with one hundred percent of her sweetness. That is the miracle math of a mama. That is the reason Berry believes he is love’s firstborn.
Let’s hear it for Patches, who does not have kittens, and yet she does.
We do not know if the great pastel empath ever gave birth. We do know that she is a mother of many.
At seventeen, she seeks the bedraggled. She finds the sad and under-snuggled. She is not fussy about species. She cuddles cats and circles ankles. She has never looked into a pair of eyes she did not love.
Patches assumes everyone is her baby. She assumes the role of mega-mama. Many a ragamuffin has risen up from woe after Patches made muffins on their midsection.
Let’s hear it for the mamas, for they are mercy’s many faces. If they had a refrigerator, their kittens’ pictures would be on it.
We might be surprised to see our own snapshots there.
Let’s make a fuss over the mamas, for they are always concerned with someone smaller than themselves. May we praise them. May we be like them.
There are a multitude of ways to “mama,” and this orphan world needs them all.
