Motherhood is damned hard. Pregnancy, childbirth, the Terrible Twos, the Terrible Teens, wondering where the hell they are at 3 a.m., knowing exactly where they are at 3 a.m. (just follow the incessant crying!). They all take a toll on a body. Not to mention the day to day dealing with everything from sibling rivalry to broken hearts, bad grades, awards days, messy bedrooms, perfect teeth, sniffles and boo-boos, and big hugs. And ALL THAT DRIVING! (I swear that I had a couple of years that I wanted to change my permanent address to my car.)
I have, like every mother, made mistakes, and will continue to do so. But I love my kids. And I love my Mom and am grateful for all the lessons she has taught me. I don't always see eye to eye with my children or my Mom, but in the end, my love and respect for all of them far outweigh the petty disagreements and occasional hurt feelings.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Thank you for letting me become who I am today.
And thank you to my kids, Brendan, Lexi and Julia, for helping me become who I am today.
I came across this snippet of poetry the other day, and it seemed right to me. So in the spirit of Mother's Day, I would like to pass it on:
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you, but not from you.
And though they are with you, they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have thoughts of their own.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
But seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite;
And He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's had be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so he also loves the bow that is stable.
- Khalil Gibran