I had many mothers as a boy. Some were sweet, others were staunch and brisk. I honor all seven of them in this Mother's Day tribute.

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May 07, 2012

Ms. Grunchy Munterbean

Grunchy was my first mother.  She was a nurturer by nature, and a sweet muffin baker.  She would bake the finest muffins in three states, and would fill the house with the buttery fumes of a sticky blueberry surprise in the oven.  Her only memorable flaw was her misguided hand-eye coordination.  Poor Grunchy used to have to wear goggles when she baked or else the pungent chocolate goo would squirt beneath her eyelids from her unfortunate aiming.  You will be missed, Lordess Munterbean.

Madam Sadsack, a.k.a. "The Happy Witch"

Never was there a more joyus witch than my second mother, Madam Sadsack.  Her midnight cackles were endearing enough for me to forget about the morbid spells of child-pattern baldness she placed upon my six-year-old head.  I only wish I could have hugged her without her demonic vessle violently ripping my soul from my body upon contact.  She loved Scrabble and Polish poetry.  You will be missed, Sadsack.

Mrs. Blenis Rimtwist

A lover of salt, a dreamer of silence, and a supreme enemy of dogs and birds are only micro-observations of my third mother, Mrs. Blenis Rimtwist.  Our relationship blossomed during the twilight of her brewing dissatisfaction with noise.  But irony was the skin of her charm - for she had the loudest, most earth-quaking voice I had ever known to this day.  A walk in the park with her consisted of a cocophony of shrill squawks and roars, often accompanied by a string of drool quivering from a gaping mouth set close under her cherry-red eye sockets.  Dearest Rimtwist, if I saw you today, I would offer you nothing short of a sound-less smile and a handful of grainy salt-lick for your leathery tongue to caress.  You will be missed.

Kat Creamweaver, a.k.a. "The Silly Princess"

There was a brief episode in my teens - consisting of three days or so - that I would distinctly qualify as the silliest period of my life.  That, of course, I would contribute to no one other than Kat Creamweaver, my fourth mother.  Kat surfaces in my more vivid mid-pubescent memories, especially the one where we were in the kitchen on a moist August morning: she was stirring flapjack batter when she boasted, "I'm not an old maid, for I am a beautiful butterfly," and at that, she whisked off her dress and frolicked through the foyer, exposing her proud furry torso and bulbous genitalia.  You will be missed, "Silly Princess."

Ms. Jackophile Cornlips

They say your eyes are the windows to your soul.  In the case of my fifth mother, Ms. Jackophile Cornlips, her eyes were the windows to my soul.  Ms. Cornlips taught me that growth and prosper is often the result of taking one's concentration out of the comfort zone.  One of her more flavorful parenting techniques was what she called, "The Stare Dare," where she would stand in front of the television (usually when I was in the middle of Charlie Rose) and demand that we lock eyes until I ceased her optical focus.  Although the bouts seemed outrageous and made me downright queasy at the time, I now have a heightened appreciation for intimate eye contact for someone of my experience.  You will be missed, Ms. Jackophile Cornlips.

Dr. Multch Kweeny

My sixth mother, Dr. Multch Kweeny, taught me about rainbows.  I always thought the blue-ish/purple color of the rainbow spectrum was indigo, but she informed me that was a common misconception, and I was actually looking at a rare color called "Brape" (derived from the observation of "a blue influenced grape").  You will be missed Multch.  Bless you and your dignified color spectrum. 

Mary McPaperstain, a.k.a. "The Hard Queen"

How happy must a child be when the superheroes he idolizes in his comic books enter his life in the form of his seventh mother.  Mary McPaperstain was two-hundred and forty pounds of pure hard love.  A hug from her was a reminder of my mere mortality, but the awe inspiring heft of her fingers prevented that reminder from becoming morose.  My father, whom I have kept in a dark shade of obscurity through this tribute, used to tell me how she kept us safe in our home, for it was there she claimed her nest.  On Sunday nights, father and I used to feed her stray cans to watch the wonders of her jaw and the super-human mechanics of her digestive system break down the aluminum into fuel-worthy stool samples.  Congratulations McPaperstain, you will be missed.