Happy Mother's Day

  I thought I appreciated my mother before I had Lincoln, but it was after that I realized--WHOA. I was way off.

  When Lincoln was a newborn and I was overwhelmed, thinking constantly, "This tiny person's survival depends on me. How do I deal with this total shift of my focus and being?", another part of me whispered--"Mom did this. FOUR TIMES."

  When I feel proud of myself for making dinner three times in a week, I think--Mom did this. Every day. For years. With me as a child, sighing and saying,"I wish we were having McDonalds for dinner."

  When I feel proud for (finally) vacuuming the million graham cracker bits and cheerios that are embedded in the carpet, I think--Mom did this. I'm pretty sure every day. She didn't even make a big deal of it, bragging to Dad like I do to McKay.

  When I think, "Gosh, I would love to have a day alone," I think--How many days did Mom get to be alone in the twenty-eight years it took to raise us all? Not all that many, I think. And the few she did, I remember pouting, thinking, "How could she want to be away from ME?" (I get it now, Mom.)

  Though I call her almost every day now, so she still can't really shake me. She still doesn't really get days off. (Which is why I'm not calling today, actually. I thought maybe a break would be nice. I didn't forget, I promise.)

   So to the woman who let me snuggle her on the couch as a child, probably smooshing and smothering her--

  To the woman who never got mad at the number of books I ruined reading in the bathtub--

  To the woman who let me be by myself when I needed to as a broody teenager, but also knew exactly when to knock on my door and hold me when I cried--

  To the woman who still cheers for every small success--

  To the woman who I want to be when I grow up--

  Happy Mother's Day. I love you.