Hello Little Darling,
It is the only day of the year I have my breakfast in bed: Mothers Day. And over a tray of odd pairings and fresh cut flowers from the yard, you hand me a piece of construction paper with a big smile. (Goodness, I love your smile.)
It is an art project of your handprints that looks like flowers.
Seeing your handprints takes me back to when you had your first prints taken on your birth certificate. That day I became a mom, and I felt joy, fierce love, uncertainty, and a brand new feeling I had never felt before – protection. I vowed to do my best for you for my whole life.
So here we are, a few years later, in an ironic time parallel between your first handprint and today’s. I remember when that tiny print was the same little hand that wrapped around my finger while you nursed. Then those tiny hands grew a little and learned to hold a crayon and to write on my walls. They became the ones that I see come together in prayer before you go to bed.
I am reminded of how much you and I have been through since the beginning, how it is so slow and so fast at the same time. I’m also very aware of how far we have to go.
A lifetime.
Because I’ll never stop being your mom. And I’ll always be there for you.
Being there for you sometimes looks like turning off lights behind you, helping you shake off a bad day at school, or just noticing and complementing your latest science project. If I seem tired, it’s only because I’m sleeping less to see you more. If I seem distracted, I’m thinking of how to make your life better.
Every mother I know is working towards a better balance between what others need and what we can give.
But today, I hold a paper that represents a moment I’ll always treasure. A paper with little hands frozen in time like a paused scene of my favorite move. I struggle to be content that there is no actual pause button, and even want go back and do some of the scenes over. I cant, but I do have this moment to stop and notice you… and those little hands.
Your handprint continues to get bigger every year, but no matter how big your hands get, they will always fit in mine. Two imperfect people who will grow together.
Family.
And I’ll always look forward to my next breakfast in bed when we can spend sweet moments of joy, fierce love, and trusting what the future will hold for us inspired by seemingly unimportant offerings such as paper.
Thank you so much for this gift,
Your Mom
