This Sunday, you will come into my bedroom and wake me up with a card and a gift and a bright and shiny “Happy Mother’s Day!!!”
And my heart will explode. It does that every year…and almost every day.
I still can’t believe that my name is actually “mom.”
For years my eyes would burn and my heart would ache on the second Sunday in May. I would watch my friends enjoy their well-wishes while I would quietly crumble inside.
But this Sunday, a little voice will jolt me awake. And she will call me mom.
For that, I am thankful.
Thank you for sleepless nights and joy filled days.
For Friday night sleepovers and Saturday morning snuggles.
For dancing in the driveway and singing in the car.
For sharing your fears and listening to mine.
For being strong and weak and afraid and determined.
For being a good friend and a kind neighbor.
For being my favorite artist and personal singer.
For loving me when I screw up over and over and over again.
For laundry baskets filled with tiny shirts.
For a driveway covered in chalk.
For burning feet as we chase the ice cream truck across the hot pavement.
For presenting me with a dandelion as if it were the rarest of roses.
Thank you for smiles
and messes
and late nights
and early mornings
and legos on the floor
and stuffed animals in my bed
and crumbs in the car
and sticky fingers
and loud music
and untied shoes
and knots in your hair
and messy countertops
and out of control birthday parties
and spilled milk
and rocks in your pockets
and piles of drawings
and muddy shoes
and conversations in the bathroom
and water balloon fights
and stacks of books everywhere
and french fries in the back seat
and visits with every dog on every block
and runny noses
and being late
and afternoons at the library
and pillow fights past bedtime
and love
and laughter
and for calling me mom.
I’m your mom. And today you celebrate me.
But today, I celebrate you and the name that I now bear only because you exist.
I’m your mom.
Thank you for choosing me.