Motherhood

When I was tucking Ethan in a few nights ago, he asked me if I was going to take a shower, as I often do right after we put the boys to bed for the night. When I told him I was, he reached up and touched my hair gently, looked at me with those big brown eyes, and said "After you shower, I want you to put your hair back just like this because you look so pretty Mommy." I didn't know whether to laugh or cry (and did a little of both in reality). I chuckled because I looked and felt anything but pretty at that moment - I had taken a run hours before and hadn't yet gotten around to showering (yes, Melissa, this still happens), my crazy hair had just been yanked out of it's haphazard bun during a raucous story hour, I didn't have a touch of make-up on... But at that moment, there were tears too - tears of joy and love, sure, but also tears of sadness and loss, grief in the knowledge that this amazing, awesome moment was fleeting.

Being a parent is such a wonderful gift for so many reasons, but the unconditional love, that unadulterated adoration that these little love machines we create constantly shower us with - that's the greatest gift of all. This adoration is strong and unwavering, even on days when it feels undeserved - when we're snappy, or we don't have enough patience, or time, or both. It's raw and awesome and powerful and sometimes even feels a bit smothering and weighty, with all the responsibility it brings with it. But I know life won't always be this way. Sure, our boys will always love us, but they won't always think we're perfect. They won't always run to us with open arms and unabashed smiles when we pick them up at school, their cheeks almost unable to contain their sweeping smiles. They won't always want to hold our hands, let us smother them with hugs and kisses and tickles. There will be a time when something exciting or challenging or scary will happen during their day and we won't be the first ones they long to tell. There will be a day when they'd rather spend time with someone else. And that, that is what slowly breaks my heart. Parents with children older than ours say that this is all for the better, that what you lose in love and affection is replaced by maturity, independence, no diapers!, pals with whom you can travel and do fun activities, and the ability to regain some piece of your own life back. Although I want to believe these wise parents, I can't help but think they are only saying these things to make themselves feel better. Because this, this right now, it can't get any better than this.

Every once in awhile (or more often than I'd like to admit), I work myself into a tizzy on this topic, panicking about how big the boys have gotten, how quickly it's all flying by, how soon they will be grown and off to college and beyond. And then I remember that they are only 4 and 2, that I need to slow down and savor these moments. I need to collect them in my heart and on paper, so I can look back years down the road and remember a time when my little boys thought their Mommy hung the moon.

And so when I took Ethan to our special "Moms and Muffins" breakfast at school this morning, I held his hand as we sat and ate our muffins together, I showered him with praise as he presented me with a yellow flower he selected just for me in a vase I will cherish forever, and I hugged him tighter when we said goodbye. And I'll keep doing all this as long as he'll let me.

Of course, having said all this, Ethan appears much more into his muffin than his mom in this picture.