This time of year the world outside my window speaks of mothers. Mama cows and their calves, as black as coal, block the road ahead of me as they plod toward verdant pastures. An osprey with its beak clasping a branch wings overhead toward its nest atop a power pole.

Mother sheep and goats rest in the barnyard with blades of grass protruding from either side of their mouths while lambs and kids bound about. Tails of steelhead wiggle in redds, preparing to lay eggs.

Winter and spring play tug of war with us, snowing on daffodils, as though struggling through labor pains for new birth.

My mind drifts back to my boys (now grown men) and how much I enjoyed being their mother. Like a digital slide show, images flash before my inner eye.

Slide 356: I was trying to prop first baby Matthew, six-months, upright on the floor level waterbed. He kept tipping over to the side, and I would set him up. Over to the side. Up. Again and again. He started giggling, and I got tickled. It was the first deep laugh we shared.

Slide 420,761: 10-year-old Sam wanted to draw on his bedroom wall. I agreed, curious about his artistic abilities. Among his sketches was an army personnel truck carrying deer, elk and moose holding rifles. Underneath was the caption, “How do you like being shot at?”

Was he going to be a pacifist? I didn’t have an opinion either way, but I wondered. Today he is as big a hunter as his brother.

It seems like more pictures are of my failures, but by the grace of God, they don’t remember most of them. Yet …

Slide 1,288,397: While the boys were growing up, I invited company over for dinner after church nearly every week. It was a pleasure to prepare the meal, properly decorate the table and use my fine china.

As guests complimented the display of food and dining room décor, Sam called out amidst the chatter, “Where’s the pickles?”

“Pickles?”

“Pickles, Mama. You always have pickles.”

Normally I included bowls of gherkin pickles and black olives. Having overlooked pickles on my last grocery shopping, I gave no thought to the single bowl of olives now on the table.

“Sam, I didn’t get pickles last time I shopped,” I said.

“But you always have pickles, Mama,” he insisted.

“Sam, for this one meal there will be no pickles,” I said. “But you can be assured, I will not forget the pickles ever again!”

Satisfied, he quieted down, and we all enjoyed a good meal.

Hours later I kissed his forehead at bedtime.

“Love you, Sam.”

“I love you, too, Mama. But I can’t believe you forgot the pickles.”

I came across a card that indicated being a grandmother is a promotion for a job well done as a mother. Not sure I qualify. However, there are six grandchildren who know that when I arrive, there’s going to be some fun!

Happy Mother’s Day, especially to any MWoP’s (Mothers Without Pickles). God help us all.

Katherine Stickroth is a freelance writer who also blogs at awallowagal.com.