Morning Air Show
A young mother writes:
“I know you’ve written before about the empty-nest syndrome, that lonely
period after the children are grown and gone. Right now I’m up to my
eyeballs in laundry and muddy boots. The baby is teething; the boys are
fighting. My husband just called and said to eat without him, and I fell
off my diet. Lay it on me again, will you?”
OK. One of these days, you’ll shout, “Why don’t you kids grow up and act
your age!” And they will. Or, “You guys get outside and find yourselves
something to do . . . and don’t slam the door!” And they won’t.
You’ll straighten up the boys’ bedroom neat and tidy: bumper stickers
discarded, bedspread tucked and smooth, toys displayed on the shelves.
Hangers in the closet. Animals caged. And you’ll say out loud, “Now I want
it to stay this way.” And it will.
You’ll prepare a perfect dinner with a salad that hasn’t been picked to
death and a cake with no finger traces in the icing, and you’ll say, “Now,
there’s a meal for company.” And you’ll eat it alone.
You’ll say, “I want complete privacy on the phone. No dancing around. No
demolition crews. Silence! Do you hear?” And you’ll have it.
No more plastic tablecloths stained with spaghetti. No more bedspreads to
protect the sofa from damp bottoms. No more gates to stumble over at the
top of the basement steps.
No more anxious nights under a vaporizer tent. No more sand on the sheets
or Popeye movies in the bathroom. No more iron-on patches, rubber bands
for ponytails, tight boots or wet knotted shoestrings.
Imagine. A lipstick with a point on it. No baby-sitter for New Year’s Eve.
Having your teeth cleaned without a baby on your lap.
No PTA meetings. No car pools. No blaring radios. No one washing her hair
at 11 o’clock at night.
Think about it. No more sloppy oatmeal kisses. No more tooth fairy. No
giggles in the dark. No knees to heal, no responsibility.
Only a voice crying, “Why don’t you grow up?” and the silence echoing, “I
Mommy Monday 1/19/15
You won't remember the way I stood in the bathroom late that night in labor with you, fearfully and excitedly gazing up at the moon, knowing I was going to bring you into the world soon and whispering to you, "We can do this."
You won't remember the way you looked at me right after you were born, or the way I pulled you up next to my heart and marveled "Hi, baby" in your ear.
You won't remember the way you healed my broken spirit. The way you completed my heart. I was weak before I had you, and you made me whole again.
You won't remember the way I proudly watched you everywhere we went, you were always the most beautiful boy in the room to me.
You won't remember the way you made me laugh with all of the silly things you did. I saw how kind your heart was.
You won't remember the way I would brush the hair off of your forehead and the way you'd look up at me. Without any words, our souls could touch and say everything to each other that words couldn't.
You won't remember the tickle fests we had, and how I always cheated so I could hold you close and cover your salty little face in kisses.
You won't remember all the times I went to bed at night and felt such fear being your mother: Am I doing okay? Have I messed up too many times already? Can I be the kind of mother he needs?
You won't remember the way my heart broke and grew a little bigger each time you passed a milestone, watching the sand fall through the hourglass while feeling overjoyed witnessing you expand and grow.
You won't remember the way I would hold your little feet in my hands, imagining how much bigger than my own feet they will one day grow, and how I will have to let you go.
You won't remember, but I will... and I'll hold these memories in my heart for the both of us.
A Mother's Prayer
"Precious Heavenly Father,
Give me patience when little hands
tug at me with their many demands.
Give me gentle hugging arms
to help protect them from rebellions harm.
Give me wisdom from above
to teach these little ones of Your love.
Give me strength, Your love not to spare
that they may obey and live under Your care.
Give me a spirit . . . quiet and meek
let my words show kindness as I speak.
Give me the ability to teach from the heart
to help my children learn Your Word from the start.
Give me the words You'd have me say
to teach my children how to pray.
Give me time, special moments to share
that they may know, "Mommy really does care."
Give me hands that work willingly
a steadfast example that I may be.
Give me courage to stand in Your might
to teach my little ones to always do right.
Give me boldness to do all these and more
that I may not be ashamed when I stand at Your door.
My home is filled with toys, has
fingerprints on everything and is
never quiet. My hair is usually a mess
and I’m always tired, but there is
Always LOVE AND LAUGHTER.
In twenty years my children won’t
remember the house or my hair, but
they will REMEMBER the time we
spent together and the LOVE they felt.
If I had my child to raise
All over again,
I’d build self-esteem first,
And the house later.
I’d finger-paint more,
And point the finger less.
I would do less correcting
And more connecting
I’d take my eyes off my watch,
And watch with my eyes
I’d take more hikes
And fly more kites.
I’d stop playing serious,
And seriously play.
I would run through more fields
And gaze at more stars.
I’d do more hugging and less tugging.