Advice for My Daughter

Tag: mother’s day

  • The Deal All Mothers Make

    The Deal All Mothers Make

    When you become a mother, you agree to a deal. We all do it, because it seems completely reasonable at the time, but like all contracts, the fine print doesn’t become clear until years later. It reads something like this:

    “I accept the gift of this child. I understand that they will only be little for a very short time. I will do my best to live in the moment because time will pass more quickly than I anticipate.”

    We all agree to it. That’s the deal. But we didn’t realize that being a mother means that days slow down and years speed up. So, we get caught up in the days. We change diapers. We wake up for feedings. We do laundry. And all of a sudden, we are tying their shoes on the first day of school.

    And we tell ourselves that we still have plenty of time.

    So we help with homework, take them to soccer, and buy them new shoes for the first day of middle school.

    And we tell ourselves that we still have plenty of time.

    So we help them get their drivers license, watch their heart get broken and let them order new shoes for prom.

    And we ask ourselves how they grew up so fast.

    It’s the deal that we made 18 years ago. We were told that we would have them for a very short time. But it all happened so fast.

    Their shoes are bigger than ours. They are going on dates. They know more about technology than we do. And we don’t understand how we let it slip away.

    But there is fine print with this agreement. Every year, on the second Sunday in May, we are reminded of the passing years when we celebrate Mother’s Day shortly before summer vacation. It’s a reminder not to let another summer pass us by.

    Go for walks.

    Stay up late listening to the crickets and looking at the stars.

    Ride a horse.

    Go swimming.

    Eat watermelon.

    Have a water balloon fight.

    Chase the ice cream truck.

    Share secrets.

    Laugh.

    Hug.

    Be present…in this moment…right now.

    The average lifespan is 79 years. One quarter of those were spent with our parents. Another quarter we get to spend with our children before we hear the crackle of their wings spreading wide.

    The deal was made. The contract is final. We only get to have them little for a short period of time. They will never be little again.

    Let this Mother’s Day be a reminder to put down the phone, turn off the tv and to listen instead of talk, because the years are only going to go faster. Soon, there will be no more shoes lying in the middle of the kitchen. The house will feel quiet. The car will drive away from the place they once called home.

    These years are precious. Be present. Make memories. You can keep the memories forever.

    One day I realized that I would never know my daughter as an old woman, so I wrote this letter to her that you may also enjoy. It’s also available as a downloadable printable, perfect for Mother’s Day. Happy Mother’s Day!

     

     

  • A Letter to My Daughter on Mother’s Day

    A Letter to My Daughter on Mother’s Day

    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.