She's exhausted. She's been up all night with a child who can't keep any food down. The water pours into the bathtub at 3 AM, and it's the third bath that night. She falls asleep next to the hot little body on the floor, hoping they both get the rest they need before the day begins and wondering if maybe the doctor can squeeze them in if they call right when the clinic opens.
She's worried. Her son has been struggling to make friends in school, and she can't seem to reach him like she used to. He's hurting and lonely, and she wants to help. Is he being bullied? Is he doing the bullying? How can she help him grow into a good man?
She feels guilty. She lost her temper today, and she could see the change in her daughter's eyes. She knows she shouldn't have yelled -- but it was just one more thing in a day where so many things have already gone wrong. They were going to be late, and she's tired of always having to repeat herself, so she got angry, and the kids got quiet.
She's sixty-one. She gets in the car to drive to the post office to send a package to a five-year-old boy who loves dinosaurs. She doesn't get to see him very often, but she loves him anyway. She sees his mother struggle with feelings of inadequacy and worry, and offers advice and comfort when she can.
She takes a moment alone. The tiredness behind her eyes builds up. She takes a deep breath. And then she keeps moving forward. She puts on a brave face to protect you so you don't have to be afraid.
She wears her heart on her sleeve. She gives her body away. She fills up her time. She creates light in the darkness. She chases away dragons. She washes dish after dish. She asks how your day was, but she spends hers in the car, just driving and driving and driving. She says yes to getting a cat, even though she doesn't like cats. She makes playdough for the preschool and puts the homework folder in the backpack. She says no ice-cream unless you eat your dinner, but then forgets and gives you ice-cream anyway. She goes to bed last and wakes up first. She wants to lie down and rest. She wants to get away, but when she does, she misses home. She's lonely and crowded at the same moment.
She waits by the hospital bed and holds your hand at the dentist. She says you don't have to go out when you don't want to, and she agrees to be the bad guy so you can save face. She sees the melt-downs in the grocery store and somehow she knows what to do, even though she feels like she's just making it up as so goes along. She is patient, even if she doesn't believe it.
She wonders who she is sometimes. She wonders what she can change. She wants to be better but doesn't always know how to get there. She hopes her children will forgive her when she makes a mistake.
She says sorry sometimes. She says you need to wait for lunch, to put that in the trash, to tidy your room. She cares how your hair looks for school pictures and tells you to put on a clean shirt because you've worn that one for three days. No, it's not still clean. Yes, people can tell.
She is divinity made human. She is sacrifice embodied. She is hurting and healing at the same time. She chooses to be wounded to make others safe, to cultivate joy, to give what she can, even when she has given so much already.
She cries tears in every shade emotion -- by the side of a tiny casket, as she watches the picture on the ultrasound, into her pillow as she lays down to sleep, in the bright sunshine, and when she doesn't know if she can take another step forward. Joy and pain, sadness and gladness, guilt and pride, peace and turmoil.
Her name is Mom.
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