I've been a Mother for 15 years. Actually, if you count all the bossing and mothering I did of my little brother, that number is more like 20 years. I had so much practice on him that by the time my own three children came along it felt as natural as anything.
Well, the bossing part anyway.
The administrative arm of parenting isn’t that hard for me. It’s like following a recipe of sorts; start with a good calendar, add a pinch of prayer, a dash of Grandma’s advice to clean one thing every single day and a healthy application of duct tape over my sometimes critical mouth. Those are the ingredients that help keep the gears of my household from grinding to a halt. The rogue element that continues to threaten my well-maintained stiff upper lip, however, is the fact that there are three little pairs of legs running around in the world with my heart firmly attached to them.
Don't get me wrong. I love that twerp-of-a-brother I used to boss around as much as the next sister. But "birthing-a-child" and "bossing-a-sibling" are on two different emotional playing fields, my friends. The first can take your breath away with a love so deep for your man and the child you created with him that you can be soaring to the highest heights one minute and worrying yourself into a pit of despair the next. The second is just plain entertainment; where the latest earth-shattering conflict can usually be solved with a hearty game of rock-paper-scissors.
Somehow the sum total of all my training works together for good, making me pseudo-confident (on most days) that my four-hundred-plus years of mad-mothering-skills should make me an expert by now. And, if not an "expert" then, at least not surprised anymore by all the crazy emotions, right? RIGHT?!?
So, last week when I celebrated my 15th Anniversary of answering to the name of "Hey Mom," I considered it a mighty milestone in a career that manages to present me with a new emotional fact scenario almost daily. But, interestingly, the tables had turned ever-so-slightly on this particular day of celebration.
Fifteen years ago I was giddy and high-fiving everyone in the hospital room. I was eating popsicles and had butterflies in my stomach. I was so excited for what lay ahead that I could hardly stand the waiting any longer.
Twelve hours of hard work in the birthing suite, one little trip to the emergency room, a few years shaved off my husband's life and out came the present I'd been waiting to hold my whole life!
He was perfect! He was soft! He was cuddly and he was all-mine to hug and hold forever! Or so I thought.
Fast forward fifteen years and he's still pretty doggone perfect. Muscles, sweat and the scent of fresh cut firewood have replaced the softness and baby blue pajamas that used to smell like Dreft laundry soap. I have to pay him a dollar for almost every hug, his high pitched "Mommies" have turned into deep, smooth "Moms" and I'm slowly learning to share more of his time and amazing gifts with a world that is crying-out for hope, leadership and a few manners.
On this special day he's the one with butterflies and high-fives. I have the privilege of watching from the sidelines as the hours of studying pay off in the form of a driver's permit and the car keys he's been waiting to hold in his hands his whole life!
“Oh child,” I want to say. “You have no idea how many wonderful things you will wait your whole life to hold in your hands.”
Each FIRST time will seem like it took forever to get here and you'll want to hold on so tight. Then, one day, you'll discover that the measure of a man (and a Mom) is in the letting go.
