There are plenty of words to say about Mom

My mom will be 83 on Wednesday . I wasn't going to write a column about her, because I've done a couple and really, what more is there to say? And then it started coming to me ... all the "more there is to say." Such as:

My mom is the laughter I hear in the night as I fall asleep, sitting down in the living room with my dad, talking about us; she's the wave I look for as I leave for school; she's the optimistic smile I cling to as I mount the steps to the stage for my piano recital; and, she's the implacable voice of censure when I've done something stupid, which, honestly, I did ... a lot.

My mom is the lecture when I'm tired, whiny and feeling sorry for myself, and all I want to do is mope and wallow, that makes me go to a movie instead.

My mom is the incentive when I don't want to work out or even take the dogs for a walk, that makes me get up and put one foot in front of the other.

My mom is the sound of disapproval when I contemplate drinking too much, or eating too much, or lying, cheating, stealing, or, worst of all, taking myself too seriously, that pulls me up short and makes me laugh at myself.

My mother is the pursed-lip veto of too-tight shorts, see-through tops, and miniskirted dresses at my age (OK, at any age), that, infuriatingly, forces me to go back and change just as I'm about to leave. And, my mother is the absolute racket in my head if I even think of wearing shorts out for dinner, no makeup to the grocery store, jeans to church or sweatpants anywhere!

My mom is the cooking disaster hot line, the spot-removing guru, the decorating mentor and the dinner party authority. She's also the passion in my voice when I argue politics and religion ... and possibly my refusal to go down without a fight.

My mother is the cool hand on my burning forehead in the middle of the night; she's the one with all the answers for my French homework; who helped me with piano; who knew what shoes to wear with what outfit, and when I was old enough to wear makeup; she knew which girls were going to be good, solid friends, and which ones weren't worth the trouble.

When I became a mother, rather than diminishing, Mom's role seemed to expand. She was suddenly the Buddha of breast-feeding, the swami of spit-up, the tutor of teething, the Dalai Lama of diapering, and the pundit of potty-training. And, she answered my constant questions without laughing, or making me feel like an idiot ... well, most of the time.

My mother's voice sounded in my ears every time I punished my children ... and every time I told them how proud I was of them; every time I worried about them, and embarrassed them, and caused them to swear blood oaths that they would never do/say something like that to their children.

My mom is the tears that flowed when my children screamed, "I hate you!" ... or whispered, "I love you."

My mom loved Erma Bombeck. Some of you may remember this one:

When the Good Lord was creating mothers, He said to the angel, "Have you read the specs on this order? She must have 180 movable parts. Run on black coffee and leftovers. Have a kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a broken heart. And six pairs of hands."

The angel shook her head slowly.

"But, it's the three pairs of eyes that are the problem."

"Three pairs of eyes?"

God nodded. "One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks, 'What are you kids doing in there?' Another in the back of her head that sees what she's not supposed to, and of course the ones in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and say, 'I still love you' without a word."

"Get some rest," said the angel.

"I can't," said God, "I'm so close. Already, I have one who heals herself when she's sick ... can feed a family of six on 1 pound of hamburger ... and can get a 9-year-old to stand under a shower. She's soft, but tough! Imagine what this mother can endure."

The angel circled the model, then ran her finger across the cheek.

"There's a leak," she pronounced.

"That's not a leak," said the Lord. "It's a tear."

"What for?"

"It's for joy, sadness, disappointment, loneliness and pride."

"You are a genius," said the angel.

Somberly, God answered, "I didn't put it there."

So, my mom. Do without her? Please. I'd rather wear sweatpants to my wedding! Happy almost birthday, Mom.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.