Thirty-six and some change years ago, a woman was helped into the entrance of a hospital in Mandeville, Jamaica. Her pain was intense, but there was no real
reason to panic. The trauma of childbirth was familiar to her.

This time, however, there would be no time for preparation. This kid was not only willful but also impatient. The warning he gave of his arrival was less like
that of regular deliveries and more like that of a two-minute drill.

The woman was helped to the floor of the waiting area as her friends screamed for a doctor, any doctor, to match the haste with which the still un-born child sought to remove the "un" from his adjective.  

Quite literally, that doctor was beaten to the punch as I came into the world with no need to be spanked in order to let everyone around at the time know that.

It would be the last time Ninfa Ramsay would have the experience of physically giving life to someone, but not the last time she would be the source of life and power to me or my family.

My mother, if educated in this country to the degree of her peers, would probably be the CEO of some large company. But despite some barriers, she did run her own small business for many years on Jamaica Avenue near Springfield Boulevard.  

Even though she never lorded it over my dad, she was clearly the breadwinner of the family.  We were able to live comfortably, and I was able to go to college and see some of the world because of it.

Even though I am a grown man with kids of my own, I feel I am never too old to hear words of wisdom or encourage-ment from her on any number of subjects.

I have to say, without a doubt, I believe I would not be a journalist if it were not for her advice during a critical time in my life. In fact, she has shown what sometimes looked to me like superhuman mental strength.  

While the pain of childbirth does not awaken all women to their true strength, most of our sisters are fully aware of the advantage God has given them over us.  

They have the ability to love us unconditionally, protect us from as many evils as they can handle, and guide us past pitfalls they have already seen.  

This week, a school in the city decided to no longer celebrate Mother’s Day because of the fear it might bring pain to those who are children in same-sex households, children whose parents are divorced, or children who have lost one or both parents.

While I sympathize with children who are going through that, I think it further dilutes the notion of how important not only mothers are but also motherhood is.  I mean real motherhood...since giving birth is not a free pass to the title.

Many people who did not pass through my mother’s womb consider her their mother, not only because of the love she’s shown them but also because of her toughness and discipline in life.  

Now is that to say that everything has been all rosey?  

Of course not.  

Through the years there may have been times when things became strained, to say the least.  

But like your house or car, you don’t throw it all away because every now and then you have to fix something in or on it.

When you work on something for a long time they call it either a "landmark" or a "classic."

Well, I would have to agree, since I truly consider my mom one for the ages.

Like many of our folks her age in the so-called new economy, she still works.  

She lives in Florida now, where I see her less.  But not a week goes by without a phone call and an "I Love You."   

I know not everyone has been as blessed as I have been in this and I know this weekend may bring on more pain than joy.

For those of you who unfortunately can’t pull good thoughts from your own memory, feel free to borrow mine this weekend.  

For those of you who can, even if it doesn’t apply to your own flesh and blood, make sure that woman knows that you care about her....not only for the weekend, but also for whatever time you and she may have together.

Finally to my mother, my hero, my mentor, and my friend, I say "Thank You!"

For there are not enough days on the calendar, there isn’t enough time on the clock, nor enough paper in the forest for cards or wrapping to hold all of the love and gratitude I have for you and to God for allowing you to be who you are.