Yesterday was Mother's Day. I have so many fond things to say about Mother's. I have an amazing Mother and Mother-in-Law and wonderful sisters and friends who are Mothers. And I love being a Mother.
Our Mother Day was, well, busy. We had a great time celebrating with both Mothers and went to church. I was so worn out by the end but grateful for the special day. Chad got me beautiful flowers and treats and Geddy picked out this balloon for me (which I think he chose for selfish reasons, it's his favorite thing to play with right now).
|Pardon my dirty kitchen in the background. That's just the reality of it.|
Chad also wrote this wonderful blog post about Mother's for me. He has such a way with words so that's why this Mother's Day post is so short. I would rather you read his awesome sentences than my scattered ones.
"It seems a bit silly that we should dedicate only a single day to mothers, when so many of our days hinge on their ability to consistently deny their own happiness and desires for our own.
Certainly one could argue that, in addition, mothers are celebrated to some degree on Valentine’s Day, on Christmas (Mary being possibly the most famous mother in history), their wedding anniversary (when it’s remembered), and their own birthday. Yet, of these annual events, none of them truly belong to the women who unwaveringly steer their children toward prosperity in the promise of adulthood. I submit that if any days belong to mom (if not all of them), they are the birthdates of her children, for it is on those rare occasions when, with blood and tears, she painstakingly earned the mantle of motherhood.
(So we might start giving Mom a present on Geddy’s birthday…)
And if that day be hers, when wailing babe was plucked from secure womb and swaddled in a future unknown, then why not the day after? Why not the day when tentative feet first dance away from the safety of the supportive armrest, and mark a freedom hereto unrealized by infant mind? Why isn’t she given the day that pink lips and squeaky throat first coordinate the word that perfectly describes their benevolent caretaker, “mama?” Why not give her the day when her rowdy child with hair-pulling fits, swings his tiny arm and knocks her eyeglasses asunder (while she ignores the instinct to anger and gently calms him regardless)? Or the day next, when she exhausts her voice reading the same stack of books over and over again, amid the gentle refrain “one more?” Give her that day, I say, when she hasn’t slept for worry, when she’s cried in despair, when she’s prayed for hope, and when she’s forgotten everything on her never-ending list that didn’t start and end with her little one or ones.
Hilary, it is my genuine fear that you won’t feel appreciated for your actions; that your heroic daily sacrifices will go unnoticed by our child (and future children), and that you’ll feel the effort unequal to the reward. I refuse to suppose that such an obscure and thankless end be yours, and I will endeavor to instill the gratitude in our young ones which, by blood, is your right.
I thank God for you daily, for the mother you have been and the woman you continue to be.
I’ve heard it said, “in today’s day and age, how could you even think of bringing children into the world?”-- but my reply is this, “with you as a mother, how could we not?”
I love you,
I feel that I should apologize for the days, like last Wednesday, when I become so unreasonably grumpy that you have to trick me into taking an angry nap. Mama skills, for the most part, translate to wife skills-- thus I’m the benefactor of your patience and love in more ways than one."