I was cooking dinner one night when my daughter Kathryn complained to me about a hurt finger. Keeping my focus on the meat browning in the frying pan, I said, “Oh, that’s too bad.”
A few weeks later Kathryn came to me once again. This time she held up a very crooked finger and asked, “Should my finger look like this?”
“Kathryn!” I exclaimed, “Why didn’t you tell me you broke your finger?”
“I did tell you”, she answered. “I told you my finger hurt, and you just said, ‘That’s too bad.’”
I whisked her off to the doctor in hopes the finger could be fixed, but was told it was too late. The finger had set, but over time it could straighten a bit.
And that is just one reason why I will never be “Mother of the Year.”
I could list many others. If you were to ask my kids they would say I should never win because of the time I got them all out of bed at five in the morning to weed the garden. Or they might say I don’t qualify because I once got them all up at 3 a.m. to watch a meteor shower when all they really wanted to do was sleep. But personally, I think both of those are good things.
At the end of this life, though, I hope my kids won’t remember the times I lost my patience and yelled at them (yes, I have yelled, but not in a long time— having only one child at home certainly helps), how dinner wasn’t always perfect, or how the laundry wasn’t always (never) done, and how I forced them all to take piano lessons.
Instead I hope they remember all the nights I stayed up late waiting for them to come home and then stayed up even later listening to stories about their night. I hope they remember helping them with school projects or when I let them ditch school (on a very rare occasion) to help me make salsa. I hope they remember when Camille told me she was running away from home so I went with her and we spent the afternoon at the park, or all the times we would sing at the top of our lungs in the car to the sound track for "13 Going On 30", the foot rubs, and all the telephone calls made from college.
Those are the things I hope they remember.
Because, my dear sweet children . . . I may not be the best mother in the world, and I may not receive any public recognition for my motherhood, but . . .
Being your mother has been one of the greatest blessings of my life.
From the first moment I knew you were a microscopic possibility, to the moment I held each of you in my arms following your birth, I have loved you. And that love has continued to grow and strengthen through time.
And every day of my life I am so thankful to a wonderful Heavenly Father, who sent you all to me.
Camille, Ryan, Kristen, Kathryn and Michelle . . . I love you!! And am so glad you are mine!
You all have truly brought . . . joy to my journey!