I am a mother of two beautiful little girls. I thought I was the last to go to bed last night and the first to wake this morning, yet setting beside my nightstand were two cards. I didn’t even notice them until I saw my oldest staring at me with a big grin on her face. She can rarely stand to keep a secret. Almost through with kindergarten she is now able to read and write and had written her sweet words on my card. My youngest just barely four, had been able to write some letters of her name and had included a picture of her curly hair and her brain- a picture that looks like scribbles to the untrained eye.
They both wished me a Happy Mothers Day and then the youngest was ready to go back to bed! The other card was from my wonderful husband.
I called my mom in the morning, apparently too early because she was sleeping. My father answered the phone instead and wished me a happy Mother’s Day. My mom and I spoke later, exchanged greetings and the latest news.
Facebook is filled with messages and love for moms.
I feel blessed, truly; yet deep down, there is a sadness that is hard to explain.
I suppose there are many years where I have thought about my birth/first mother on this day. This year it’s amplified. Since I have decided to find her, I’ve thought a lot about what she went through. What she may still be going through. I wonder if this is a day of joy or sadness for her. I wonder if she has any children sending her cards or calling her on the phone. I wonder if she is lonely, longing for the daughter she never knew, never held.
I pray that when I find her she is ready to heal. I pray that when I find her she is ready to move into the future. I pray that next year, on Mother’s Day, maybe I might be able to send her a card or give her a call.
Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who gave me life, and the woman who raised me. I’m grateful for you both.
Such a thoughtful peace. Check it out.
They come in with fistfuls, crushed, warm and wilted in their palms. Dirt under their fingernails, smudged on their cheeks, they each come forth and bring me the soft, yellow riches of their dandelion harvest, the first for this year with it’s late birthing spring.
The broken mess of petals and dandelion heads have been carefully distributed among the cups and mason jars that Asher could find in my dishwasher.
He, they, save them, because they are beauty and spring and magic all at once. They are sagging stems and mushed petals that somehow, in a way that they can’t fully understand, have the power to make their mother smile.
They don’t realize that the smile is in the gifting, not the gift. It’s in their soft, open hearts, not what they carry in their palms. It’s, simply, them.
I don’t even particularly like dandelions, not yet anyway. Here in my house, I…
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