They buy you hydrangea bushes and stackable storage and v-neck pink t-shirts. They draw your likeness on cards that they made just for you.
But the real gift is in the fact that when there is a hug to be given to only one person, it is given to you, the mother. When there is a problem to be solved by just one person, the little ones bring it to you, the mom. When there is a choice to be made, they choose you. When there is a secret to share, they share it with you. When there is a game to be played, they want to play it with you. It’s true that you also have to accept the other side of that coin. There are all of the horribly unacceptable things from my previous post. Things that ought not be discussed and certainly shouldn’t be blogged about. It is you holding the bowl under the chin, chiding the child for doing things even farm animals wouldn’t do, and cleaning the sheets in the middle of the night. But this is a price most mothers are willing to pay for the rewards that come alongside it.
Every day has moments that cause me to take a breath, consider who I am and what I’ve been given, and utter my thanks to the Father of Lights. Every day presents opportunities to savor parenthood and observe it for its gore and its glory. But this day is set aside for the public expression of all of that. It is a mom’s annual review from her company. It is the day the world professes the thoughts that other days just remain in their heads.
Today was nice. Worship was warm and uplifting. Lunch was delicious in every way except for my unobstructed view of a man whose pants did not suffice, if you know what I mean.
I was thinking I might like some Botox, you know, to kind of buy back a few days from my early thirties or something.
I received, among other things, an iron (badly needed, I assure you).
But the real gift is not in any of this. It is in the milky white skin, the chipped toenail polish, the brown eyes that almost completely disappear during laughter, the sticky hand of the oldest child that reaches up in the middle of a department store and unexpectedly takes yours, and the note that is passed to you in the middle of a sermon that tells you you’re special. The real gift is fragmented into, but not diminished by, every single moment of every single day…
And I think living in a shoe without the Botox is a small price to pay for all of that.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Snappshots.com 