It seemed only too fitting after Mother's Day to post a poem I wrote about my children. It still is an odd concept to me to celebrate Mother's Day for myself. But yesterday, my husband was working all day and we were not seeing our families, so it really was just me and my kids and it left me with no choice to focus on me as a mother and what that means.
Not gonna lie, at first I was grumpy with the thought of having to make dinner like I do every single day. I looked into ordering Swiss Chalet, a tradition my family had done for year, but alas, I live too far from the nearest restaurant for them to send me food. Fair enough. We will get to dinner later.
My plans were to do some things with the kids we both could enjoy. We had picked out and planted some flowers together the day before, but I still needed hanging baskets to go over my garage. The plan was to walk to the Home Hardware and grab some. The plan... sadly we didn't make it before naptime and then it rained. Oh well, at least we did the others the day before.
The other plan was to do our Mother's Day craft, a tradition that I started the first Mother's Day after Bella was born. Salt dough with my hand print, then theirs in mine, with the year and their name at the top. A sweet keepsake for me and something I could cherish forever. After they had baked and cooled, I painted them and let them dry. Afterwards I carried them upstairs to compare them with the previous years, like I do every year, marveling over the change in their hand growth... Only to find with horror and heartbreak that each of their first Mother's Day crafts (2013 for Bella, 2014 for Henry) were broken. Bella's was mostly around the outside so while upsetting, I could still see her hand. But Henry's hand was in pieces of blue paint and dough. To say I was I was devastated is an understatement. I cried, I wept, I sobbed. I tried to piece them together as best I could and took picture of these precious mementos. And then I cried, I wept, I sobbed again. So much so, I gave myself a headache. I believe the term is 'Ugly Cry'.
I would like to address the fact that in the grand scheme, I am aware that it is not the be all end all, but after discussing it with my Mom Group, I felt better knowing they too would be upset and I was not overreacting, as I had once thought. I was embarrassed that this thing, this keepsake had grieved me so much. But I am not anymore. I am beyond upset (I am going to try to glue it together today, then bubble wrap them all and lock them in a fireproof safe). But I am not embarrassed for being attached to something that reminds me how precious life is and how quickly it moves.
My children are 2 and 3 & 3/4. Our days wiz past and I am doing my best to do everything all the time. Hell, I did 4 loads of laundry and watered the new sod we put in, on top of all the regular motherly duties yesterday. Meals were made, diapers changed, butts wiped, noses blown, songs sang, books read, games played.... and it is hard sometimes to take a step back and look around. But this poem I wrote last year reminds us what a privilege it is to enjoy them sleeping, to enjoy the moments we have with them. The cracked keepsakes reminded me how fragile life is, and how quickly it can be gone.
So on Mother's Day for dinner I made spaghetti, not because it was my choice or even a particular favourite of mine, but because it is their favourite. I knew it would make them happy, and as their mum, that is all I really want in life. To watch their sweet, messy faces smiling at me. I am truly blessed to be their mum and that is what Mother's Day means to me.