It’s mother’s day, which is usually a day for celebrating your mother, and I do celebrate my mom. But I spent this week watching my little babies celebrate me with hugs and little hand made gifts and things and while I melted into my ballet slippers, I kept thinking “but you are the reason I get to celebrate.” So I decided to put down what exactly about being a mother I celebrate. Because you don’t hear enough good about it.
I celebrate that I was given these three pieces of my soul. The oldest has all the good parts of her daddy and I. The middle looks just like my daddy. And our littlest fell right off of her daddy. And they look so much like a unit of happiness to me.
I am blessed with the hugs and kisses.
The incoherent “i wub you, momma,” coupled with a sticky kiss and a hug that puts dirt on my clothes.
The big grins when he gets something right after struggling for a few minutes.
The “Look momma!” when she finishes a project.
The total and utter and disgusting toy filled mess from hell.
The joy and laughter and giggles when they play together, going up and down the hallway, just reveling in having each other.
I am so happy to have these days of obnoxious jumping around the living room trying to get my attention and filling his shoes and pockets up with sand at the park.
The eating dirt and chewing on hair and the smelling of applesauce.
The little fingers under the door when I go to the bathroom, or just having an audience when it happens.
The innocent random and somewhat embarrassing public groping of the boobs because they are soft and the baby likes to lay her head on them. (that stops eventually, right?)
I relish the middle of the night cries cause they need to know I’m here.
The can’t go to sleep without mommy tucking them in.
The pouting in the back of the car cause I refuse to turn the music up so loud we have to roll the windows down and it’s freezing outside.
The refusal to eat anything but french fries and cheddar cheese this week cause he’s a freak.
The innate ability to imitate a Jedi and try to force choke you when you don’t do something they want you to do.
The assumption that you are made of money and can afford the swimming lessons and pool access all summer and all the expensive camps and still have time and money to take them on vacation.
The inability to go through one dinner without cleaning the floor with the vacuum and mop afterwards, or the screaming baths following dinner because the baby hates the bathtub for some unknown reason.
The snuggles and demands to be held and the wet kisses and the clinging to me as I leave for work.
The matching up of a frilly white dress with light up rainbow colored high tops and refusal to brush her hair for VPK graduation.
And while you guys might read through these and see long nights without sleep and ants in my dining room and messes all over the house and yelling and screaming and lack of privacy, I see life in a place where I had no life for so long. So many years fighting infertility just to have children followed by so many years of fighting to keep the only child I had and not let cancer win. I have three incredible gifts from God. Amazing little people that I can’t live without and wouldn’t want to try. So yeah, I don’t get a vacation and haven’t had one without a child since before they were born, but I’m okay with that. They are my joy, and spending my time with them makes me happy, despite the frustrating moments. I see them and feel better, lighter, more. They make me better, lighter, more.
So this Mother’s Day, I don’t want any sleeping in or breakfast in bed. I don’t want shiny gifts or fancy toys. I want them. My three slightly evil, devil children and their smiles and yells and voices and song, in all their glory. Nothing in this world would make my Mother’s Day better.
Image courtesy of David Castillo Dominici at FreeDigitalPhotos.net