I remember my very first Mother’s Day, that one where I had my first son growing inside of my tummy. It felt so weird to even give myself the title of Mom, and I’d smile awkwardly and blush a lot when people would wish me a Happy Mother’s Day. It kind of felt like I was cheating a little bit, I was sort of a mom, but not quite.
Now after 8 years and 4 boys, I’m just all mom.
It’s the name I use to label my stuff, (like this is Mom’s chocolate bar, keep your mitts off mmmk?!) It’s how I sign my name about 49% of the time, and it’s how I refer to myself in phrases like, “Love your mother!!! Here’s 5 dollars, you get to buy me some flowers, go ahead and pick me some pink ones you think I might like… atta boys.”
I love my kids and I love being a mom. It’s a calling on my life and my holy work upon this earth. It’s not easy, at all… but it is an honour and a wonderful responsibility, and the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done.
My days are full of marvelously ordinary moments, and usually splattered with the messiest and most unpredictable scenes that could only be composed by children.
As I was writing these very words my one year old who was standing in the bathtub ten feet away from me looked up at me, reached out his chubby little hand, and dumped a whole cup of water on the toilet lid while grinning from ear to ear.
Baths. The opening act to my mandatory floor mopping routine.
I often see little bodies running around the house howling with laughter because they’re dressed in my jeans, or dad’s jeans, or my housecoat, or Dad’s socks.
I recently found a crying one year old stuck in the doorway of our patio with his face unwillingly wedged into the dirty diaper pail that sits on that patio. He was just a heap of crying arms and legs sobbing for assistance. I’m the search and rescue co-captain of our home.
I tuck my 3 year old in bed each night and he almost always says, “Ok, I sleep first and then I eat cereal?!” He just likes to make sure, because eating cereal is legitimately the highlight to all of his days. He hums as he chews each bite as he’s done since he first began eating at 6 months old. He gives ‘singing for your supper’ a literal meaning to my little ears.
They are the funniest. They are the loudest. They are the messiest. And somehow by the grace of God, they are all mine. They are my gifts, sometimes small Jack in the Box type gifts, but sweet gifts nonetheless.
Their arrival gave me the title of “Mom,” and sure they can say thanks to me, but Mother’s Day is also a good reminder for me to say thanks to them… for making me who I am.