This morning as I was served a feta, bacon and veggie omelet with a gooey lemon poppyseed muffin, I thought about the probable fact that all around America, moms everywhere were having a similar sort of experience. Whether it’s breakfast out, breakfast in bed, breakfast with china and crystal, or breakfast delivered in the midst of the normal morning chaos like my own, there’s a universal appreciation happening. Call me a sap. That makes me happy.
While my husband chopped and stirred and fried, I attempted to honor his wish to serve me by keeping out of his way. You can’t just turn off the mom button, though. Fruit had to be tossed in the blender for the baby’s breakfast. The two-year-old refused to eat his scrambled eggs. Sippy cups needed refilling and a fork retrieved from the floor.
Even now, as I sit at the computer away from our normal, happy morning brouhaha, I hear a small voice asking, “Where’s Mommy? Where’s Mommy?”
You can’t escape being Mom. But that’s ok. I don’t want to. I appreciate that I am appreciated and love being the one who gets to take care of them, to meet needs daily. Needs sweet, fun, tedious, gross, exhausting, simple, and unnoticed.
And cheers to my own mama, who continues to mother and meet the needs of her children, even as we are all grown up.
When I was very small, she taught me to tie my shoes, to love books, to roller skate, to hold a paintbrush. She took me to the park and to the library, kept me away from Santa’s lap after my first tear-filled experience there, and let me build fortresses out of couch cushions.
When I was a little older, she taught me to shave my legs, to let the boys call me instead of vice versa, and the ability of good chocolate to make any bad day better. She took me to visit colleges, sent me cards and care packages while I was away, and drove hundreds of miles each spring to help me cram a ridiculous amount of stuff into one brave lone Jeep for the journey home.
More recently, she’s taught me how to make a tender and juicy roast, how to paint neatly and spackle perfectly, to find joy in an identity that no longer involves a profession. She watches my kiddos so I can tackle the grocery store in peace. She reassures me over the phone at 7 am that the bumps on my toddler are probably not the plague. She stops by my house to bring me chocolate.
When I grow up….I want to be just like my mama.
