In honor of Mother's Day, some of us at A Wild Ride want to share our own mother's stories. Here's the first in the series:

Yes. My mother did not know how to slow down her life. Often she couldn't. And more often, she wouldn't. But the drive that kept her going began years earlier. The youngest of six in an immigrant family, she was one part babied and one part emboldened. Nervous around anger, but willing to go the distance when she needed to.
As a young child, herself a religious, discriminated-against minority, my mother's best friend was a little black girl with flaming red hair. For this, other children threw rocks at her head and called her names that make my ears shrivel. My mom, emboldened, played with her friend anyway.
My mother was a nurse. Her heavy, gray, wool nursing cape lives on an old hanger in my closet, years away from when she earned it – the rascal Jewish girl in a catholic hospital's nursing program. (Yes, she and friends did short-sheet the young nuns' beds. And the nuns loved it.) My grandfather, small and peaceful by the time I knew him, discouraged my mother from becoming a nurse. "I don't want a daughter of mine emptying bedpans!" he declared. (Only to trade his trepidations for pride three years later.) She went anyway.
She never wavered in her commitment to health. As a Mother & Baby public health nurse, she drove the Arizona desert, treating families and their newborns, some living in piano boxes to escape the blistering sun and winds. One day, during our stint in Arizona, my five-billion-watt brainy older brother's fifth grade teacher hauled him into the paint room and whooped his behind with a paddle. She was no doubt thinking, "This hurts me more than it hurts you." Yeah, right.
My mother, still nervous around the beast, anger, deftly walked into the principal's office, her curly hair smoking. "It might be okay with the school district to hit children, but it's NOT okay with me," she said. "I don't spank my children and neither should you. Ever!"
My mother hovered, always, around the bottom line. My dad was great. He was active in scouts, took us fishing, taught me to swim. He cooked salami and eggs and grilled steaks. He ironed his own shirts. He loved us. He loved and supported my mom. But at the end of the day (actually, all day) my mother held down the domestic fort. For someone called "Babe" by her parents and siblings, she felt immense responsibility for our family. As my father's heart troubles worsened, she worked even harder to balance our family axis. It didn't bend her, but it took its tool.
Study. Learn. Study. Learn. An RN and always top dog wherever she worked – she was even MY boss one summer – my mother burrowed into the academic world she loved. Not because she was motivated by competition and ego, but because she loved to learn, expand her boundaries, move beyond the echo of "I don’t want a daughter of mine emptying bed pans!"
My mother went back to school and earned an MA, MPH, and a PhD. At the age of 82, just retired, she had a Bat Mitzvah. Standing proud on the bema (podium) with the other women in her class, my mother read in Hebrew and delivered a talk that – as it should – thrilled her to the bone. I'm not sure an audience was even necessary!
As ambitious as I am to accomplish a lot during my lifetime, and leave even a tiny scratch of hope on the surface of many people's lives, I do not strive to be Energizer Bunny II. The consequences to personal wellbeing are too great. Yet I feel immense awe and tender appreciation for the trail my mother blazed, for the love she encircled me and my family with, and what she infused into the world she left behind.