My Mom

For the past nine months, not a week goes by when I don’t wonder at least two or three times: “How did my mother do it?”

I am the mother of one – not eight. My baby is nine months old – not fifteen, twelve, eight, seven, five, three, one and just born. Or twenty-three, twenty, sixteen, fifteen, thirteen, eleven, nine and eight. Or thirty-one, twenty-eight, twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-one, nineteen, seventeen and sixteen. My daughter hasn’t started school – not homeschooling seven kids at a time. And I haven’t made one move yet with a child – let alone moving on an average of every two years, well over state lines and sometimes with a menagerie of up to one dog, two cats, six kittens and two rabbits. The truth is, I’ve hardly begun to enter motherhood.

And even with fully grown adult children, I don’t know how my mother does it. For we still carry our own set of problems to her to “fix”. Or, in some cases, leave our dogs behind in her care.  Or trust that she knows where we are and what are responsibilities are so she can remind us to accomplish them should we forget. Why? Because she’s Mom.

And now my mom is also a grandmother. A grandmother that makes it a point to be a part of her grandchildren’s lives, even from a distance, by making it a point to visit most times twice a year. Take it from someone whose grandmothers didn’t take much interest in her life…that’s HUGE. I only hope that one day Emry knows how huge.

So to a mom who is so much more than words can ever express: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!