Making a home for life

She was a homemaker.

I used to type those words a dozen times a week at the newspaper when I prepared obituaries, and each time I typed them, I marveled at how much four little words really mean.

She was a homemaker—the person responsible for making the home.

She cleaned and cooked and drove and organized and refereed. She mended clothes and broken hearts. She orchestrated births and birthday parties.

She was a teacher of math and spelling and life and God. She was there for each new love gained and each old love lost.

She knew exactly when to stop doing for you and start making you do. And always, she was there to catch you—when your bicycle started to fall, when your tears started to fall, and when your world started to fall apart.

She was a homemaker.

She worried over cobwebs and dirty windows. She fed the dog when no one else remembered. She cleaned the floors when no one else wanted. And, she changed the empty toilet paper roll.

Her only fear was of mice.

Her life was her family, and she knew that was enough life for anyone.

She smiled a lot.

She asked only for your respect and that you clean your room.

She was your mom and everyone’s mom, but mostly your mom. She expected the best, but accepted anything.

Her greatest joys were your joys; her greatest sorrows, your sorrows.

She was a homemaker.


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"She was your mom and everyone’s mom, but mostly your mom. She expected the best, but accepted anything."
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Judy Mae Bingman
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