The other day, walking into the kitchen, something caught my eye out the window. I stopped and peaked through the slats in the blinds and saw my son across the street photographing the flooded dock area along the river. And my heart skipped a beat.
I was not able to understand how much a parent loves their children until it happened to me. And after all the clichés and trite little quotes are listened to and dismissed, and all advice is taken and later discarded and all the bad days and the days of frustration are suffered and forgotten, being a mother to this beautiful boy and girl of mine has left me fragile and strong and terrified and fortified and humbled.
One solid thread running beside us,
hanging between us–
linking your life to mine.
So fragile and delicate,
our futures swing, suspended by
colored strings with glitter,
with beads, day dreams and echoes
of long forgotten lullabies.
I lifted you so that you would learn to lift yourself.
I listended to you so that you would learn to listen to your own voice.
I carried you so that you would know when to carry others.
I loved you so that you would rain love generously on
all that grows around you with a yearning thirst.
The other day someone asked me how old my children are,
I answered 17 and nearly 15.
“You’re almost done,” he remarked.
“I’ll never be done,” I answered.
Later, when I thought about this conversation the truth
struck me in a fierce way. I will never, ever be done.
I will always be their mama to infinity and beyond.