by Jordan Wallens

As you may be aware, the past year has seen much hand-wringing, tongue-wagging, and tsk-tsking around the Spartan, draconian (and enviably effective) child-rearing techniques of the Chinese “Tiger Mom.” Courtesy (or alleged lack thereof) über-parent Amy Chua’s controversial Battle Hymn.

As you may be further aware, ever since the Tigeurre’s emergence, we have witnessed a secondary drumbeat of cultural rebuttals, each and all attesting to the modular superiority of suddenly competing nationalities of motherdom. French moms, Italian ones, Guatemalans even, and others, have each made their regimental case, spoken their maternal peace.

French mothers make their kids play by themselves and forbid spontaneous snacking. Italian mamas inundate their littluns with public displays of affection, punctuated by pugilist displays of protection/retribution, depending which side you’re on. Guatemalan kids reportedly raise themselves. As Latin dads say, “Suum cuique.” (To each their own.) L’chaim.

To be clear, author does not profess to mastery of maternal efficacy. I just married well and faithfully devoured each of the above testimonials. Sorry, ovamonials. And I’m here to gratefully submit a pacifist alternative:

Basque moms are tops.

I went Basque, and I will never go back. Not sure who I mean? Neither did I. A primer. The Basque people hail from Europe’s Iberian peninsula and carry a tenderly proud culture that dates its roots literally to pre-history. The semi-autonomous “Basque Country” is perched in the western Pyrenees mountain range, comprising the southernmost region of France and northern few provinces of Spain. But lest you mislabel them “French” or “Spaniard,” know that any Basque will delicately enlighten you, Basques were Basques before mapmakers ever wrote “France” or “Spain.”

The Basque language, called “Euskera,” is a linguistic riddle, an incomprehensible anomaly. Euskera shares virtually zero root correlations with the romance-based tongues that surround (never invaded) them. If you’ve ever seen Euskera in print, you’ll understand why English is mostly devoid of letter Xs. The Basques used them all up. But our son Xabi is doing his part at bringing X back stateside.

Basque mothers are pure, honest, and warm (Basque fathers take a while to come around). And their culture pure, that is, till this mongrel came along. In 2003, we wed, in 2009 we bred, ceremoniously despoiling by half centuries of unalloyed bloodline. Lo siento.

To get in with Basques, it helps to be one of them, as they are intensely loyal to fellow members. But ain’t nothing you can do to change that. So, it doesn’t hurt to be Catholic. Which I’m not, sorry Papa, or whoever. But third chance, earn a solid reputation as a good eater. For a Basque mother, this will do. As Israeli moms say, “Dayenu.” (“It would be enough.”) Basque moms, turns out, didn’t care less that I’m half Jewish.

Basque culture has been en vogue for a while now. Recognized globally for their avant-garde cuisine, Basque moms can be counted on to reliably ply you and your children (plus any visitors or casual acquaintances) with heaping mounds of affection, interest, and sumptuous food. Pintxos, stews, tapas, pescado, “espagarrry,” fried chicken, and pork chops so “exquisito!” you will lick others’ fingers too.

I don’t know. I grew up mostly without a mom, more a committee of them. But I was lucky: I married Basque. And by extension, her Basque mom. Which is great for me, and phenomenal for our kid. (Her Basque dad I’m still courting.)

This Mother’s Day, let’s sound a salute to the grandmothers. I, we, couldn’t do it without ’em. I am unshutupably fortunate for the mother-in-law I got dealt, Maria Angelines, the “Amatxi” my son scored.

Basque mothers are committed yet independent, so not too overbearing. They are elementary school room mothers and field trip chaperones. And they’re the first to arrive with reinforcements and logistic support when you, or for that matter anyone you have ever known, falls ill. If Maria catches wind of it, expect a care-strike of 72 mixed croquettes stat, convalescent stuffed pimientos all around.

Basque mom will join you for a hike, gut your fish, and play sneaky good soccer. She lives completely without guile, except when playing cards. There she is, well, shrewd.

But when your trousers tear, she will mend them. When a picture breaks, she repairs it. Warning, she’ll frequently resort to charitable subterfuge, and always have an excuse for why it was no problem. She anticipates your resistance, but you are powerless to stop her, for what she knows that we miss, is that it is more joyous to give, than busybusy you may be hip to receive.

Domestic pushovers they are not. Basque mothers are just as stern with wayward children as those raging Sicilians with their paddles. Basques walk softly and carry a big pella. Which she’ll never need, for she possesses an inimitable look that clearly states, “Child you are in error, and got two seconds to get your misbehavin’ act sorted out.” It’s a searing gaze that could reduce a toddler of steel to a quivering hug of guilt in seconds. And don’t even bother pleading your case, she knooows.

As my wife and her brother will tell you, “Our mother never had to strike us. One look, and we got the message.”

But lovingly persistent these Basque moms and “amatxis” will be. When your brother dies tragically, she will cry for you, light candles to beg St. Anthony’s mercy, and call you on the phone every single morning to make sure you believe you’re gonna make it.

She will teach your toddler pitch-perfect Spanish, arrive gleefully sans complaint on call to babysit, tag-team a doctor’s appointment, or await a repairman, so you can get your job done, or better yet eke a spell of priceless freedom.

“Go look at a movie. Take your lovely wife out for dinner.”

Basque moms show up pre-dawn, spirited, and never ever late. They say when you bring the kids, it’s a trip; leave the kids behind, and it’s a vacation. “My vuKAYtion!” elates Maria. Thanks to Amatxi, this helps us devilishly often. Ain’t I a stinker?

She is the doyenne of domestic detail. Makes her Playdoh from scratch. Basques grew up with little, and thus evolved eminently resourceful. She always makes fresh ice.

Basque “amas” are highly disciplined. When a lifelong devotee of sweet confections learned she was diabetic, her diet turned square on a peseta, never to go back. She will only indulge in drink on the rarest of occasions. About one time in 10, she’ll give in and make the table’s night as she exclaims, “Whyyyy NOT!”

A Basque mom tells stories replete with characters and sayings that don’t quite translate. They clearly and sincerely champion compassion, good humor. And when she closes the yarn with her contagious trademark flourish, “And we laaaughed,” you will with her.

I find the fraught “mother-in-law” misleading. Maria is ever vigilant not to encroach, lest we pin on her the dread label of “suegra,” or “monster-in-law”.

Basque moms listen patiently to your tales of triumph and confessional woes. Even if she doesn’t always understand everything you’re saying (or writing), she will ask good questions, encourage, and unfailingly take your side. For reasons that are as clear to her as they are not altogether obvious to you. Even when I’m wrong, she spares me that look.

Amy Chua’s got the bona fides (Her kids are reportedly very well-adjusted, skilled artistic performers, and peak scholastic achievers). And so does Maria. In a nation where we each are what we do, where as parents we are what our kids become, her son is a successful yet mild-mannered CFO, and her daughter attended the nicest business school in the land before re-joining one of the world’s finest investment firms.

A Basque mother (all right, grandmother) will never complain about the job you do maintaining your home. She will sneak over when you’re at work and clean it up better than you ever could. Not because she must, but because Basque mothers prefer to keep busy, and simplify your enbusied life. She knows.

Unlike us entitled American brats, she will never require an ounce of praise, but as outspoken yankee, you’ll lavish it on her anyway. The one thing she has never quite mastered is how to suffer compliments. Basque mothers are content to toil backstage in the wings. Did I mention the wings? Angelic, lightly battered.

I’ll admit, I was susceptible. But a Basque Mom will remind you every single day, occasionally in words, but always in deed, and ever in manner, that you are never alone, you are dearly loved.

Her influential example has made me a more patient person, which is a real feat. My wife’s mother, my son’s Amatxi. Ave Maria! We love her. She knows. Need not even say. But I will, ’cause I must.

I hope Euskera has a stronger word than thank you. Basque moms make life smooth, world better. Look into one.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Jordan Wallens is a Cornell graduate and author of Gridchronic. He has worked in the investment business for 18 years and lives in Los Feliz with his wife and son.

*Photo courtesy of futureatlas.com.