A Mother's Love Is True Love
A mother's love is a wonderful love packaged from heaven with special care.
A mother's love is like no other love that you can compare.
A mother's love is purified by angels and flows directly from her soul.
A mother's love is justified by God, and by his hands he created the mould.
This mould that was shaped and fashioned by God has endured the test of time.
This mould that was taped and recorded by women rang out like a heavenly chime.
A mother's love is unconditional, and from her heart this can be told.
A mother's love is nutritional; it is the fruit that feeds our soul.
A mother's love 'IS' true love, and from her heart she cannot lie.
A mother's love is eternal, the kind that won't ever die.
A mother's love is the tie that binds, and her bond can never be broken.
A mother's love is branded in our hearts, even when her words aren't spoken.
Leotha Brown
MARGARET'S MOTHER'S DAY
Chapter One
Margaret's eyes fluttered open.
She blinked as a shaft of gilded sunshine shyly peered at her through a gap in the curtains and pleasantly kissed her face with its warm lips.
Morning.
Margaret sighed dreamily.
She was being awoken by a pool of bright sunlight, the sovereign star spreading its arms cloaked in fine robes spun with threads of golden rays. It winked and waved at her, beckoning Margaret to bask in the endless delights that were born in the genesis of this fresh morn.
Margaret smiled privately to herself.
With her eyelashes still flickering in sleepy wake, Margaret moved her hand to the other side of the bed, her fingers sneaking away from her, checking for a dip in the mattress, for a bundle of bed covers, for an increase in heat. With her lithe fingers strained and spread, Margaret held her breath in suspense, every fibre of her being on tenterhooks. She turned her head to the other side of the bed, hoping to see…no, he was not there.
Margaret nodded peacefully.
Never mind.
She was not alarmed, or insulted, or saddened, she had no reason to be.
John was often not there when Margaret woke first thing, given that he rose at ludicrous hours in order to attend to matters at the mill, his punctilious schedule unrelenting, his list of undertakings and responsibilities never-ending. Then again, it was not only the requirements of commerce and the law which made demands on her husband's time and kept him occupied from dawn until dusk. Indeed, for it did not help that the man himself was of an innately industrious temperament, his head constantly bursting at the seams with plans and projects which he felt restlessly obliged to complete to the highest and timeliest of standards. To be sure, for while some men gained their energy from worldly refreshments such as rest or food, John Thornton received his nourishment from the spiritual spring of hard and honest work. This shaped the humility of his character, stimulating his integrity, vitality, and his sense of self-respect, each finely tuned quality allowing him to sleep soundly at night.
All of this meant that from the moment John opened his eyes, he would instantly fling off his sheets, roll out of bed, splash his face with water, haul on his starched clothes, and march out of the door, ready to face the fresh possibilities and challenges of the uncharted day with motivated anticipation. Of course, one could not forget that nowadays, there may have been one or two (or three or four), additional responsibilities which competed for the master's attention. Nevertheless, it was undeniable that these small, yet significant cares were a most welcome distraction for the Master of Marlborough Mills, something, (or perhaps better described as someone), that made him want to hurry home every day, his mind missing them, his arms aching for them, his heart overflowing with love for them.
However, this entrenched and intuitive morning ritual of productivity described above could not be counted as complete, since John would never quit his chamber before he had guardedly leaned over the bed and lowered himself to leave a fond kiss of farewell on his wife's slumbering cheek. Gazing at her in worship, John found that his instincts tugged him between a selfless need to let her sleep, and a selfish want to wake her so that he might relish her company, bask in the beauty of her smile, and savour the sweetness of her pleas for him to delay and stay just a little longer. He could never resist such an alluring entreaty, and it often caused the master to be terribly late for work as he eagerly clambered back into their marital bed, a decision that was always well and truly rewarded. Of course, there were the refreshingly rare instances when John would wake to find his wife also stirring, and on those delectable occasions, he would grin broadly from cheek to cheek, shuffle closer, draw her into his tender embrace, and no amount of bartering, bribing, or bullying, could drag the Master of Marlborough Mills from this intimate cocoon of cosy kisses and caresses.
Nevertheless, as she glanced at his empty side of the bed on this particular March morn, Margaret was far from surprised to find it vacant, for she knew what the darling man would be doing.
She giggled.
Oh, John!
Her dear, dear John.
How she loved him!
Margaret yawned and stretched, her legs extending far down the bed and her arms reaching high above her head. She wiggled her toes and fingers, grateful for the space to elongate her aching limbs, her muscles and joints moaning as she disturbed them, groaning into alertness. As she did this, Margaret felt a stirring in her abdomen. Peering down, she surveyed the swell of her stomach, a mound which was rising gradually every day, growing at a healthy and heartening rate.
Rubbing at her stomach and feeling the tight skin that taughtened the surface, she patted it gently. 'Well, good morning you,' she murmured. 'Tell me, little one, do you know what today is?'
The baby did not answer, not with a spin, nor a kick, nor a punch, not even a nudge, so the mother relaxed back against the soothing padding of her goose-feather pillows and let the angel be since they were surely still fast asleep, and she would not disturb her darling dove, not for all the tea in China.
This baby would be Margaret and John's eighth child, her sixth pregnancy in ten years. As Margaret placed her splayed hands on her tummy, little did she know that this baby really would forever be her baby, because due to a complication during labour, this would be their last child. But do not be disheartened, dear reader, no, be of good cheer, for both baby and mother would not only survive the ordeal but would also thrive. To be sure, John and Margaret had loved, did love, and would love, each and every one of their treasured Thorntons with fierce and faithful devotion, simply grateful to God that he had granted them such a wholesome family to be born from their blissful union, the branches of their family tree stretching tall and proud, reaching far and wide.
It was at that moment, as Margaret lolled back against her cushions and wondered what adventures the day would bring, that she heard a muffled melody drifting towards her from along the passageway. Turning to the door, she listened to an amusing medley of jumbled sounds, a blended symphony which consisted of various clashing components. It included: the pitter-patter of bare feet, hushed whisperings, high-pitched giggles, petulant whimpers, grouchy tickings-off, and a pinch of pushing and shoving thrown into the bargain for good measure.
'Shh!' came the throaty growl of a man, his rich voice subdued in a rumbling murmur. 'Mind she might still be sleepin','
Margaret smirked.
'Here they come,' she whispered, bracing herself for what was to come, an inevitable onslaught of affection.
Gazing at the slit in the door that sat slightly ajar, Margaret spied a gathering of eyes peeking and peeping at her, gawking as if she were some fascinating spectacle in Manchester Zoo. Margaret simpered. What a bunch! Lifting her hand, she winkled her fingers in greeting, alerting the goggling spectators to the fact that she was well and truly awake, ready to receive visitors.
Oh, my! ─ that did it!
Next thing Margaret knew, the door flew open with a forceful swing, and it crashed against the wall, the poor framework suffering a terribly unfair clout, which split the plaster, the cracks establishing an indecorous labyrinth of crevasses. This rowdy clamour was quickly followed by a riot of running feet, which all rushed towards the bed as if in a race, each spirited and sprinting participant determined to win first prize. In a series of impressive leaps and bounds, seven pairs of scrawny arms and legs jumped on Margaret and wrapped or weaved themselves around her in impetuous how-do-you-do.
'Hey-hey-hey!' John's baritone tenor boomed from behind them, the helpless man unable to drag the unruly pack of affable yet utterly wild animals off of his wife since he was currently preoccupied in carefully carrying in a tray which he set down on a nearby bureau. 'What did I tell you, hmm? Be careful!' he reprimanded. 'You don't want to go hurting your mama or your baby brother or sister,' he rebuked, although, if Margaret looked closely, she could detect the tell-tale signs of a humorous grin curling the corners of his seemingly stern lips.
Darling John! He liked to play the overbearing father, the grumpy bear, but really, inside, he was just their gentle giant, a man who was a strong yet equally sensitive head of their little (but ever-increasing), family. Indeed, he was a man and a master who, without fail, embodied and exemplified fairness, faithfulness, fortitude, and an unwavering representation of fatherliness in his every look, his every touch, his every word, and his every deed. Without a doubt, John Thornton had come to personify the divine devotion of one who is both a partner and a parent, a dual role and responsibility which he had treated with an unswerving constancy since the day Margaret had married him….and, in many ways, even since the day she had met him.
Margaret hauled herself up into a more comfortable sitting position, her gaze scanning the sea of smiling faces that encircled her, fourteen eyes which watched her intently. All of her little ones were here. Maria, aged nine, was lugging one of the youngest twins in her arms, Frederick, who was now one year old. The infant sucked his soggy thumb, and with a spare hand, idly looped one of his sister's chestnut locks around his fingers as he stared at his mother with drowsy eyes, piercing spheres that were exact replicas of John's cobalt orbs.
Maria herself was growing up into a fine young woman, her features matching that of her mother's, with the same russet hair, dainty nose, high and mighty chin, and effortlessly regal poise. The girl was of a polite, studious nature, always a credit to her parents with her impeccable manners and graceful refinements. However, her inherent sense of courtesy and modesty did not render her dull, for the girl's wits were as sharp as flints, awarding her with an astute aptitude for learning and a sense of right and wrong which was grounded in a resolutely compassionate conscience. What was more, much like her mother, while Maria may have been as virtuous as an angel most of the time, when she took it upon herself to throw a hissy-fit, the Thornton men soon learnt that hell hath no fury like a Hale woman in a huff.
Richard, who was the spitting image of his father, now eight years old, leaned against the bedpost, striking a remarkably roguish figure with his rumpled shirt and ruffled black mane. Margaret always comically considered that her eldest son would make a rather dashing and daring sort of highwayman or pirate, but alas, John did not concur that such unlawful, (not to mention volatile), professions were fitting for a son of a magistrate. Richard was currently mimicking that idiosyncratic habit that John often unconsciously employed, with his head slanted forwards, his eyes narrowed broodingly, and his lips sealed in a thin line, the rigidity of it affecting his jaw to stiffen and flex of its own accord. The whole guise gave the boy a wolfish presence, and some might think him terribly formidable, frightening even, if they did not know him better, and were not acquainted with the thoughtful soul which shyly resided beneath that reserved veneer. Goodness! When Margaret looked at Ricky, she often wondered if she was gazing at an otherworldly vision of John from the past. It made her question if her dear boy had actually inherited any of her looks at all, (his nature most decidedly like hers), but as Richard crooked his chiselled jaw to the side, an image of Margaret's own father fleetingly flashed into her mind, so there must have been a Hale strand or two hidden deep within the lad's blood and bones.
Daniel, his unidentical twin, was carrying Fred's twin, Hannie, who was currently straddling her brother in an undignified piggyback, her ankles kicking at his flanks, ordering her horsey to giddy-up! John had recently been riding, and had taken her for the first time, the child guardedly held in his secure arms. While her father had cautiously trotted, he had chuckled at her shrill giggles, not to mention the sulky way in which she had sobbed when John, at last, after indulging her enthusiasm for several hours, had been obliged to take Hannie down from her new-found throne. Needless to say, the toddler had found the novel experience thrilling, and now horses were all she could gibber on about, never missing a chance to try and spring onto her brothers' backs, her officious spirit breaking the wild stallions in.
Danny was fairly different to his twin, because while the pair were as close as crooks when it came to their shenanigans, the younger of the set had taken after Margaret's side of the family in both his appearance and attitude. With his sandy-blonde mop of hair and cloudy eyes, he was an imitation of his Uncle Frederick, the lad also assuming his relation's rash and fervent personality, meaning that he was more obstinate and outspoken than his restrained and reflective brother, always willing to stand up for himself and others when he believed that a grave, (or even trivial), injustice had been committed. In fact, Margaret often supposed that if there were ever to be a mutiny in the Thornton household, then Danny would undoubtedly be the unequivocal ringleader behind the coup d'état.
That left just two. Nicholas, now five, was crisscrossing between his father's lofty legs, the timid lad being of a dependent disposition, always keen to stay close at hand. Elizabeth, who was three, an inquisitive child, was kneeling on the bed, her eyes swooping up and down Margaret with unblinking alertness, ever intrigued by her mother's bulging belly.
Well, dear reader, you may be forgiven if you feel overwhelmed and befuddled by such a lengthy list of names, but I assure you that you are not alone, for John and Margaret themselves found the task of keeping track of seven Thorntons to be a full-time occupation, one which tested their patience, their guile, and even their sanity morning, noon, and night. But alas, it was a charge which they accepted with wholehearted gladness.
So, to line them up in our minds…with Maria, Richard, Daniel, Nicholas, Elizabeth, Frederick, and Hannie, all watching her, patiently waiting for her to induce and incite their show of love, an overflowing need that itched in their dear little hearts, Margaret broadly opened her arms in affectionate welcome. 'Come here, my angels,' she invited, and hooted as they all collectively climbed and crawled onto, and in some cases, into, the bed, snuggling close into her maternal embrace.
'Happy Mother's Day!' they all cheered in chorus.
'Why thank you,' she clucked, letting her figure relax into the assortment of cosy bodies that clung to hers.
It was incredible, because no matter how tired or tender she felt during her pregnancies, Margaret always found that she could draw such astonishing strength and succour from her children, who through their kind-hearted care, reminded her for whom she endured the pains and perils of confinement and labour. In truth, at times like this, she trusted that in the end, when she held the new life, the new love in her arms, with its wide, sleepy yawns, soft, warm skin, and the way its tiny, wrinkly fingers curled around hers in a way that was unconditional in its unquestioning affection, then Margaret would appreciate that it had all been worth it.
'We─we─we has presents for you, Mama!' Lizzie stuttered impatiently, wriggling about like a worm on a line, the prospect of giving a gift leaving her tongue-tied. Sweet Lizzie, she was always more delighted to give than to receive, her mother's daughter to be sure.
Margaret gasped in astonishment. 'Presents?' she echoed. 'For me?' she asked, laying a hand over her heart, her wedded rings glinting in the sunlight that spread across the room, bathing it in a pool of pale gold. 'How exciting! May I see?'
Notes:
A couple of notes about this story. For one, I know that Mother's Day didn't become a custom until the early 20th century, but I ask that you indulge me here while I bend the historical dates a bit. Also, this story does contain a few modern elements (although it's still authentic in both its facts and language), but again, let's just roll with it, as I have chosen to blend the traditional with the contemporary here, highlighting that the bond between parents and children is something which transcends time.