In my memory so far, Mother's Day has always been a time of flowers and pretty cards and gift certificates for manicures and all kinds of woman-y stuff, and telling my mom thanks for always being there. And at the time, I meant it. I really did. But I had no idea. I just had no earthly idea what I was talking about.
Because what it means to me now, what I'm talking about now, this is something so much bigger and deeper and more fierce than the kind of thing you can say with flowers.
Being a mom. It's intense.
It's being so exhausted that you feel utter despair because you just know in the depths of your soul that you will never be rested again, and still knowing that you'd run a marathon at that very moment, somehow, if that kid needed you to.
It's feeling the kind of love that almost hurts because it's so strong, that threatens to overwhelm you sometimes and you just don't have words or any way to really express it, so you just hold that kid and stare at them.
This daughter of mine, she's changed me fundamentally. And then at the same time, my life with her seems like it has just always been this way.
It's acting like a complete goober to get her to laugh, because I don't care what kind of drugs are available out there - THAT, my friend, that baby laugh directed at you - THAT is a high.
It's tripping over playmats on the floor and never being able to find her socks because the dog likes to eat them, and having to use her bib to blow my own nose because my hands are full and I'm sneezing and who has time to hunt for a tissue, anyway. It's all kinds of gross things that bother me not at all, which is surprising. I guess it's something about literally growing a person inside your own body that makes you not even think twice about sticking your finger up their nose or wiping up their puke with your bare hands.
It's me begging her every day over and over to stop growing up so fast but at the same time wishing she was already bigger because I just want to take her everywhere, and every night when I hold her I try to take a mental freeze frame of that moment because I know we'll never be here again.
And isn't that why people take so many photos of their kids? We feel so much in each moment with them, and we want to be able to revisit that moment later, but we know that our brains don't really work that way and we forget and the only thing we can do is take that photo, have that visual representation of it. It's not the cute outfit or the food on their face that we really want to capture, it's the way we feel when we look at them in that moment. And we know we can't really save it but we try.
It's seeing the man I love in a whole new light, because the way he looks at that baby girl, that's an expression I've never seen before. And the fact that he is completely wrapped around her tiny finger, it just makes him more strong, more attractive in my eyes.
He wants to protect her, and I do too, but when I look into her big eyes I see adventure. And I want to show her everything and watch her face light up, and I'm so excited about all the things we'll do together - all the places we'll go, the books we'll read, the songs we'll sing - that I can hardly contain myself and I look at her and say, just you wait, little girl. Just you wait and see what your momma's got in store for you.
So to my own mom, there's part of me who feels the need to apologize because all those years that I thought I understood you, understood our relationship - I didn't have a clue. While we were having our own fun, our own love, our own struggles as mother and daughter - while we laughed and played and ran and cried and colored and talked and traveled and danced - all I was seeing was a glimpse, all I was feeling was a very soft glancing brush of the force, of the tidal wave that you must have felt.
So Happy Mother's Day, sure. But really, all I can do to say thanks is shake my head at my own naivete, and grab your hand in one of mine and my girl's little hand in the other, and start running.
sharris@blythevillecourier.com