Mama
It's the word you both have said about a thousand times more than any other word in your expansive vocabularies.
The word moaned in sickness. Whispered in the dead of night. Shouted from across rooms and over the phone. Growled through gritted teeth in frustration. Whined until my ears bled. Repeated like a mantra to tease me. Sweetly spoken when you need some love.
And I answer. Maybe not every last time, but close.
Because I'm the only one.
I know what you're afraid of. I know what will calm you down. I know how to make you laugh, and I know what makes you cry. I know when you're having the best day of your life, and when you can barely hold it together.
My arms have folded you in love. Comforted you in sadness. Restrained you in tantrums. Pushed you into new experiences. Caught you when you fell. Rejoiced with you in victory. Cradled you as I tried to hold onto the memory of when you used to actually fit in my arms, and as I rocked you for hours on end.
My eyes have seen you at your best. And at your worst. In the moments you would never share with anyone else. They have seen you doubled over with belly laughs and cry until you threw up. They have gazed into yours in adoration and times of correction. They have searched for you in crowds and watched you walk away on new adventures.
My hands have washed mud from your hair. Wiped your noses (and other areas). Slapped your behinds. Pulled ticks off. Scratched your backs. Caressed your cheeks looking for fever. Tickled your thighs until you snorted. Lifted you up to see something extraordinary. Cut crusts off sandwiches. Iced your birthday cupcakes. Dried a thousand tears.
My lips have sung lullabies for hours on end. Prayed through the night by your bed. Shouted punishments and threats. Apologized. Bragged of your achievements. Cheered you on. Crooned. Patiently instructed. Not-so-patiently instructed. Kissed your hands, your tiny feet, your baby neck fat, your bumps and bruises, your broken skin.
My body bears the scars of you. A slash across my belly and dots on my wrists bear witness to your dramatic entrances into the world. The parts of me that have been, um, rearranged, speak to the time you spent growing inside me and when it was my body that sustained you.
My heart bears the scars of fear. Fear for your lives in those moments that I have begged the Lord to spare you. Fear of the unthinkable. Fear of messing up so badly that it changes who you become. Fear that I am taking you for granted, and with the next blink, you'll be all grown up.
In all of this, you loudly and exuberantly declare your love for me. You make me proud in who you are becoming. You remind me with every moment that every moment is a gift from God. And that in every moment, I am desperate for Him. Through Him, and because of you, I am stronger than I ever knew I could be.
Your eyes have seen me at my best. And at my worst. And yet your love for me never wavers.
You tell me I'm beautiful. I think it's because you don't know any better. But maybe, just maybe...you make me beautiful.
There is nothing glamorous to the word. Just Mama. The title with no requirements, for the job that requires everything. The work is hard and constant. Unforgiving of sickness, sadness, bad days, and those moments when I'd just like to do nothing at all. Tireless, endless, mostly thankless. At least for now.
It is a role I wouldn't trade for anything in the entire world. Even at the end of every day when I have totally emptied myself for you, and there is nothing left. I see you sleeping, and my empty heart suddenly overflows with love, and I know why God put me here.
I'm not a hero. I just know no other way. No other way than to be crazy, silly, over-the-moon in love with my babies. And to give my life to them. After all, this is what was done for me.
Being Mama is the greatest gift that this life has to offer. How I praise the Lord for it.
Trey and Aden, I love you to the moon and back. Thanks for calling me Mama.
The word moaned in sickness. Whispered in the dead of night. Shouted from across rooms and over the phone. Growled through gritted teeth in frustration. Whined until my ears bled. Repeated like a mantra to tease me. Sweetly spoken when you need some love.
And I answer. Maybe not every last time, but close.
Because I'm the only one.
I know what you're afraid of. I know what will calm you down. I know how to make you laugh, and I know what makes you cry. I know when you're having the best day of your life, and when you can barely hold it together.
My arms have folded you in love. Comforted you in sadness. Restrained you in tantrums. Pushed you into new experiences. Caught you when you fell. Rejoiced with you in victory. Cradled you as I tried to hold onto the memory of when you used to actually fit in my arms, and as I rocked you for hours on end.
My eyes have seen you at your best. And at your worst. In the moments you would never share with anyone else. They have seen you doubled over with belly laughs and cry until you threw up. They have gazed into yours in adoration and times of correction. They have searched for you in crowds and watched you walk away on new adventures.
My hands have washed mud from your hair. Wiped your noses (and other areas). Slapped your behinds. Pulled ticks off. Scratched your backs. Caressed your cheeks looking for fever. Tickled your thighs until you snorted. Lifted you up to see something extraordinary. Cut crusts off sandwiches. Iced your birthday cupcakes. Dried a thousand tears.
My lips have sung lullabies for hours on end. Prayed through the night by your bed. Shouted punishments and threats. Apologized. Bragged of your achievements. Cheered you on. Crooned. Patiently instructed. Not-so-patiently instructed. Kissed your hands, your tiny feet, your baby neck fat, your bumps and bruises, your broken skin.
My body bears the scars of you. A slash across my belly and dots on my wrists bear witness to your dramatic entrances into the world. The parts of me that have been, um, rearranged, speak to the time you spent growing inside me and when it was my body that sustained you.
My heart bears the scars of fear. Fear for your lives in those moments that I have begged the Lord to spare you. Fear of the unthinkable. Fear of messing up so badly that it changes who you become. Fear that I am taking you for granted, and with the next blink, you'll be all grown up.
In all of this, you loudly and exuberantly declare your love for me. You make me proud in who you are becoming. You remind me with every moment that every moment is a gift from God. And that in every moment, I am desperate for Him. Through Him, and because of you, I am stronger than I ever knew I could be.
Your eyes have seen me at my best. And at my worst. And yet your love for me never wavers.
You tell me I'm beautiful. I think it's because you don't know any better. But maybe, just maybe...you make me beautiful.
There is nothing glamorous to the word. Just Mama. The title with no requirements, for the job that requires everything. The work is hard and constant. Unforgiving of sickness, sadness, bad days, and those moments when I'd just like to do nothing at all. Tireless, endless, mostly thankless. At least for now.
It is a role I wouldn't trade for anything in the entire world. Even at the end of every day when I have totally emptied myself for you, and there is nothing left. I see you sleeping, and my empty heart suddenly overflows with love, and I know why God put me here.
I'm not a hero. I just know no other way. No other way than to be crazy, silly, over-the-moon in love with my babies. And to give my life to them. After all, this is what was done for me.
Being Mama is the greatest gift that this life has to offer. How I praise the Lord for it.
Trey and Aden, I love you to the moon and back. Thanks for calling me Mama.
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