“I love you, Mom.”

Archie Bunker, the proverbial “lovable bigot” of “All in the Family” fame, wasn’t very good at telling his wife, Edith, he loved her.

In one episode Edith pauses, furors her brow like she’s really thinking and asks, “Archie, do you love me?”

Archie has no patience for such queries: “What kind of question is that?”

Edith persists: “Do you still love me?”

“Of course I still love you. Why do you ask?”

“You never tell me that you love me.”

“That’s not true. On our wedding night, I said, ‘Edith, I love you.’”

“But I gotta hear it more than that.”

Obviously frustrated, Archie responds, “Whaddaya mean? I told you once. That should be enough. If it ever changes, I’ll let you know.”

For years, I was negligent in expressing those words, “I love you,” although I’d like to think I wasn’t as insensitive as Archie Bunker. The thing about insensitive people is that they usually don’t realize they are insensitive. No one ever shook me and said, “Wake up, you ignorant imp, and tell people you love that you love them.” My awakening to my insensitivity in that area was more gradual, like how the rising sun reveals those weeds in your garden that you noticed earlier that morning but somehow passed over and upon seeing them at mid-day, you say, “Geez, I knew they were there, but didn’t realize it was that bad. I’ve got to do something about that this afternoon.” 

So years ago I developed the habit of saying those three words. I tell my kids I love them every time we talk or text or email.

I tell my wife, Lori, I love her several times a day. Sometimes I verbalize it, other times I text it, and other times I leave her a note somewhere, like next to the coffee pot or on the bathroom mirror.

When she returns from an out of town trip, I’ll go all out and make a poster, maybe with a smiley face or a stick figure of me with welcoming arms, and crude as my drawing may be, it says it. 

I hope my kids pick up on the habit, not just for romantic relationships but for mom, too. It’s important that moms hear their children say, “I love you.”

Lori reminded me of that the other day after one of those times when I said, “I love you.”

“Do you tell your mom that? It’s important that she hears it.”

As a matter of fact, I do, every time we talk.

But I need to call more. Mom needs to hear it more. Two or three times a week isn’t enough.

I can hear mom’s voice lilt whenever I say,  “I love you, Mom.”

“Day-vid” (she almost sings it as she emphasizes that first syllable), that means soo much to me.”

Then she proceeds to tell me how much she loves all of us, “all my boys,” meaning my two older brothers as well as me.

Mom’s 93 years young now and still loves to hear those words, “I love you, Mom.”

But I have to mean it when I say it.  I think of the line in Snow Patrol’s popular song, “Chasing Cars.”

“Those three words

Are said too much.

They’re not enough.”

“I love you,” has to be reinforced by loving behaviors.

But of course there is no possible way my words,  “I love you,” can match Mom’s. I’ve been much more of a recipient than a giver. 

Mom was always there not just with the words but with the heart, too.

So, Mom, you were saying, “I love you,” before I could understand the words. From childbirth to staying up all night  (okay, more than one night) for a sick kid, you were saying it.

From taking me to and from school day after day---even when I told you not to hug me in front of my friends and to please let me out of the car before we actually arrived at Washington Elementary---you were saying it.

You were saying it with perfect attendance at hundreds of ball games and my only piano recital. (Sorry I quit before the second one ever transpired.)

You said it by tapping your foot and frowning at me when I sneaked the car out at age 15, mistakenly thinking I had tiptoed past the home security system called “Mom and Dad.”

You said it with your smile at the numerous graduation ceremonies you endured, wondering if I would ever get out of school.

You said it to us, “your boys,” by instilling in each of us a healthy love for others and ourselves.

You never needed to say: “I love you.”

I always knew it.

But I’m so glad you said it.

Like Edith Bunker, I needed to hear it.