The heart of my Mother’s Day

As we moms reflect back on our years of parenting this Sunday, I am sure many of us conjure up all sorts of “the crap I’ve been through for you” memories, followed by a whole lot of “but it was all so so worth it” sentiments. We remember those younger less lumpy bodies of ours, Saturday nights out with friends and Sundays asleep on the couch. Irons were left out. Plugs were uncovered. And I could actually put a full glass of water on the living room coffee table and find it untouched an hour later. We moms all mourn the loss of our cute tiny purses with room for just keys and a cell phone. We mourn the loss of our clean, uncrackered cars. We mourn the terrible loss of our super cute, skinny jeans. (Call it denial, but mine are still tucked away. It could happen.)

But WHO cares right? Honestly. Talk about small mr. potatoe heads in the grand scheme of it all.

I shake my head as I write this because I can’t believe I am about to celebrate the 5th year since I became a mother. What a night that was. He wasn’t breathing. Everything hurt too much. He was evacuated across town to Children’s Hospital. In a fog of pain killers and sleep aids for the next few days, I heard words like “dark spot on his MRI”, “don’t get your hopes up” and “Cerebral Palsy”. But on the 11th day, my miracle boy was healed, fine, and sprung from the NICU. We drove him home quietly, quickly but carefully – like we had stolen a priceless Egyptian artifact and gotten away with murder.

Now we have two. For real, they beat me down and take me to my brink. They light saber me, body slam me, beam balls off my head, and snuggle me into obvlivion. I am mess of blond, apple sauced hair; snotty, wrinkled shirt; my bag is GI-NORMOUS (containing three square meals, games, books, and medicinal aids)… and I will admit it – you might find poop under my nails. The white stuff is definitly Balmex though.

But today, as we walked across the parking lot of my 4 year old’s school, T. took my hand and gave me a huge smile. Then he led me to his classroom where we had “muffins for moms”. Right away at my seat, I found a little yellow flower and a small pink booklet just for me. Inside were adorable crayon drawings and careful lettering declaring his sentiments and 4 year old love.

And what did he write when the booklet had a space for “The prettiest thing about my mom is her…” Did he actually think of a physical trait? Did my feminist boy-wonder chalk up my beauty as something you could see? Did he buy into the hype and say something like “her long shimmering hair” (granted my hair is neither long nor shimmering…). No. Not my miracle, walks-on-water son. In the space next to the phrase “the prettiest thing about my mom is her…” he wrote in careful letters: heart. MY HEART.

Stick a light saber in me, I am done. That’s all I needed. Why am I stopping with just two children? Am I completely insane??? Children fill every corner of this world with light, joy and wonder! They are the most delicious wonderful nuggets of love; I mean, how did I even GET the CONCEPT of love before they got here!? What purpose did I have before nursing, spoon feeding and now cutting up pizza for a child?? The poop under my nails means they are healthy! They are thriving! Shout it from the rooftop of my mega super Target!


My sweet little pink mother’s day booklet.



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