Although I’m still a few years away from prenatal yoga and lamaze classes, I’ve always known that I would be a mom. When I was eight, I was sure I’d “marry a rich man and become a housewife.” Over the years that vision has evolved–clearly–but the mom part has never wavered.
I was only five when I lost my mom, yet overnight I gained more love than I knew what to do with. My Gma, my aunts, friends, neighbors, teachers, coaches; moms came out of the woodwork. True story, nobody knows how to handle crisis better than a group of moms.
I can’t tell you the amount of hugs, promising words, cheerleading and high fives that, collectively, made all the difference. Not to mention, the snacks. Moms are fucking awesome for snacks.
If it weren’t for my mom(s) I would have never been to tap or ballet, or t-ball, or hockey, or–later–basketball and softball, or field hockey and lacrosse. I would have never had the right cleats, high tops, or uniform–a clean one at that. My hair would have been a tangled mess, my boo-boos untended to, boogeymen attacking from all angles. I’d have been malnourished and neglected and filthy and likely poor tempered.
I’d have been lost navigating periods and pads, and acne and sex. I’d surely be bra-less, hairy-legged, and crude. I’d have never seen a doctor or gotten my teeth checked. No parent-teacher meeting, no bagged lunches, no homework help.
And certainly no New Kids on the Block concert!
I wouldn’t have my love for the arts or my love for nature. I wouldn’t be as compassionate, empathetic and generous. I wouldn’t sing as loudly or walk as tall. I would have never become a teacher.
I wouldn’t nurture as naturally as I do. I wouldn’t love like I learned by watching you. I wouldn’t laugh as often, and not nearly as loud. I wouldn’t work so damn hard just to make you proud. I wouldn’t have your smile and definitely not your patience. I trade you for all the stars and the moon, even my allowance.
I love you.
Thank you to all the moms who do their thing willingly, lovingly, consistently.
I look forward to the day when I can call myself one of you;)
I leave you with this: Hug a mom. Yours or someone else’s. Hold tight. She’s a rock star.