Well, she doesn't exactly belong to me—at least, not to me alone. I share her with my brother and sister. But we all agree, she's the best there is.

So as Mother's Day approaches this Sunday, I wanted to do something special for my mom, and all of the other great moms out there. So here's a tribute to my mother, and yours, too:

* * * *

M is for the many times I'd come home late at night and find her waiting up for me.

"Oh, my, I must have dozed off," she'd say every time, like I'd never heard it before. Then she'd ask, "What time is it?"

Of course, Johnny Carson's smiling face was glowing on the screen of the TV set. So she couldn't help but know what time it was ... and, anyway, she'd never been asleep in the first place!

Still, it was comforting to see her face as I walked in the door each night, even if I would have never admitted it at the time.

* * * *

O is for the other times worry would overcome her and she couldn't rest on the couch waiting for me ... she'd have to pull on her robe, hop into the car and go out searching for me. Like that one time:

It was very late one night (or very early one morning, depending upon your perspective), and I was saying goodnight to a date on her front step when she noticed a suspicious vehicle on her street.

"Who's that?" asked my date, somewhat concerned that a slow-moving car was cruising her neighborhood at that hour.

"Oh, don't worry," I explained. "That's just my mom." That was our last date.

* * * *

T is for the time she bumped her way across the median strip in the middle of town because she had seen my car pulled over to the side of the road ... with a flashing police car right behind.

I had been stopped for what the policeman called tailgating (a charge I still deny 30 years later). And, my luck, she just happened to be driving by.

She was headed in the other direction, but she'd never let something like a silly median strip stand between her and the safety of her children. So she just hung a left ... right over the center divider.

The policeman, ticket book in hand, couldn't believe his eyes.

"Uh, that's my mom," I said meekly.

"Oh," he said, as if that was enough of an explanation. He walked up to her open window, and said, "Everything's fine, Mom. Don't worry, he's OK. You can go on home." With that, she smiled, told me not to stay out too late, and drove away.

The policeman walked back over to me, laughing and shaking his head.

"Moms!" he chuckled, as if that said it all.

Then he handed me a ticket.

* * * *

H is for the hair she would constantly brush back into a fluff above my forehead when I was little.

She would lick her fingers (knowing that the lasting hold of a mother's saliva had more holding power than Vitalis and Butch Wax put together), and slap the curls into a little mountain of hair at the front of my scalp. She'd do that about 20 or 30 times a day, which I'm sure was a contributing factor to my receding hairline today.

She doesn't do it anymore, since there's no hair there left to fluff.

* * * *

E is for the emergency room we would visit at a moment's notice if she was ever worried about one of our ailments (and she was always worried). Like the time:

I was a big, burly, gifted high school football player ... OK, I was a high school football player ... and one day in practice I was cleated in the shin. Well, that night she was convinced it was infected and that she could see a red line running down my leg.

"Quick!" she screamed. "We've got to rush you to emergency."

"Why?" I asked, somewhat bewildered, given the fact that it didn't hurt, I couldn't see a red line, and it was about midnight.

Needless to say, we were off to emergency. And there I sat among the bleeding and ailing ... me with a small nick on my shin.

Half a night later, the doctor saw me.

"So, Richard, were we just looking for an excuse to skip a day of school?" he asked. "Because there's nothing wrong here."

Then he turned to my mom and said, "Everything's fine. Don't worry, he's OK. You can go on home." Thanks, Mom.

* * * *

But R is for radiance and rapture, for regard and respect, and for remembrances.

For how her radiance filled our home with joy and rapture each and every day; for how my brother, sister and I have always held her in such high regard and looked upon her with reverence and respect; and for the memories of a wonderful childhood.

If your mother is anything like mine, she's made you mad, embarrassed you in front of your friends, and frustrated you with her worries. But she's always been there for you, never let you down, and made you proud every single minute of your life that she was your mother. Mine has. And I appreciate everything she's done for me in my life.

Except, maybe that hair thing!

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.