Until Jeff arrived, my mother could not go to church on Mother’s Day. With a quivering voice, mom recounted how it felt to be judged and hear family, friends, and her ward community say, “Marjorie and Grant are more concerned with money than having a family.”

The truth could not have been any farther from those cruel cutting words.

Mom worked after she married. There was no reason to sit home and stew about not being able to have a baby. Mom is, to this day, the most practical woman I know.

Mom worked. Together they saved to buy a lot, build a house, and make a life. Because mom worked during those years without children, we grew up in a beautiful home.

Mom could not have children because of her ruptured appendix. Jeff, being Jeff, took his time to arrive and showed up in 1967. Finally, mom was a mother in the eyes of the world.

As a stepmother, I was never a mom because no one popped out of my hoo-ha.

Bert Thomas called me every year to say, “Happy Mother’s Day to the woman I know who most wants to be a mom.” For that, I am grateful.

In California, my writing group commented on a piece I composed.

“Pushing another being out from between your legs does not make you a mother. Women mother their parents, their partners, their friends . . ”

That was when I freed myself from the traditional definition of “mother.”

On Thursday, a student asked, “Hooker, are you coming to church on Sunday? We give chocolate to all the moms.”

For a moment, I paused and thought about what people might think.

He continued, “You’re a mom.  You’re our mom.  Look at all the pets you mom, too.”

So, CHEERS.

CHEERS to all my ladies that mother.

Please, never feel “less than” because you miscarried, could not get pregnant, or because timing matters.