Today is Mother's Day.
I am bleary-eyed at 2:00am, nursing my 2-month old daughter. Inhaling the sweet milky scent, I cradle her in my arms, and drowsily make a mental note to do laundry tomorrow. My son has run out of clean shirts, besides that green collared one that always gets left last. I rest my back against the bed headboard, trying in vain to get comfortable.
In four hours, my two older kids will barge through our bedroom door, asking for cereal and needing a diaper change. We will hush them so they don't wake the baby. Maybe they will play quietly for a few more minutes and allow us to sleep a bit. But probably not.
My eldest turned six yesterday. He gave me a card that he made in school. It said in scrawled writing, "I love my mom because she helps me do 300-piece puzzles." So that's the key to my son's heart. I try to recall what life was like before kids. It is a distant, hazy memory.
The kids roll around in our queen size bed, jabbing our legs and snuggling into our necks. My daughter's wild brown curls tickle my face. She is singing the Alphabet Song, highlighting her favorite part with great gusto, "eh-ye-nen-o-p!"
Breakfast is a chaotic ten minutes of toasting bread, taking the whistling tea pot off the stove, pouring milk, holding a crying baby, mopping up the inevitable mess on the table, sipping lukewarm coffee, and semi-listening to my kid describe why she likes eggs.
I give each of my kids a hug and kiss, hoping that the immense love I have for them gets transferred and imparted. Maybe that love will override the moments of yelling, frustration, and being too exhausted to be patient.
Today is Mother's Day, and I embrace the gift and challenge of motherhood. Just like yesterday. Just like tomorrow.
I am bleary-eyed at 2:00am, nursing my 2-month old daughter. Inhaling the sweet milky scent, I cradle her in my arms, and drowsily make a mental note to do laundry tomorrow. My son has run out of clean shirts, besides that green collared one that always gets left last. I rest my back against the bed headboard, trying in vain to get comfortable.
In four hours, my two older kids will barge through our bedroom door, asking for cereal and needing a diaper change. We will hush them so they don't wake the baby. Maybe they will play quietly for a few more minutes and allow us to sleep a bit. But probably not.
My eldest turned six yesterday. He gave me a card that he made in school. It said in scrawled writing, "I love my mom because she helps me do 300-piece puzzles." So that's the key to my son's heart. I try to recall what life was like before kids. It is a distant, hazy memory.
The kids roll around in our queen size bed, jabbing our legs and snuggling into our necks. My daughter's wild brown curls tickle my face. She is singing the Alphabet Song, highlighting her favorite part with great gusto, "eh-ye-nen-o-p!"
Breakfast is a chaotic ten minutes of toasting bread, taking the whistling tea pot off the stove, pouring milk, holding a crying baby, mopping up the inevitable mess on the table, sipping lukewarm coffee, and semi-listening to my kid describe why she likes eggs.
I give each of my kids a hug and kiss, hoping that the immense love I have for them gets transferred and imparted. Maybe that love will override the moments of yelling, frustration, and being too exhausted to be patient.
Today is Mother's Day, and I embrace the gift and challenge of motherhood. Just like yesterday. Just like tomorrow.