Tomorrow

Tomorrow, two of my wonderful children have birthdays. 

And I am incredibly sad.

Not just the usual nostalgic, my babies are growing up too fast kind of sad. But the kind of sad that comes from handing them over at 8am to school and their Dad. Meaning....I don't get to spend their birthday with them. This is a first, and it is one that I'm not particularly fond of. One could even say that I am being a bit pitiful about it. Because I am.

I want to celebrate. 

I want to celebrate with my big girl. My Diva is turning eight. EIGHT. Am I old enough to have an eight year old?! I don't think so. But what a girl I have. She is so smart, you guys. Scary smart. She has spent the past year growing taller and learning more about how to communicate and how to turn us all into her slaves. I really think she may achieve world domination. It's entirely possible. She is a constant surprise. One moment she will be full on Diva, with her hair flip and her side eye. But the next moment she is a little kitten, curling into my lap and leaning her forehead onto my lips for a kiss. She is giggles and beaded necklaces and painted fingernails and humming happiness. She is my girl.

I want to celebrate my little nugget, Vlad. My baby is turning three. His babyhood has been left in the dust. He can run and jump and he is almost the size of his big brother, which completely freaks me out. He is a man of very very few words, but always lets us know just how he feels and what he wants. Another freakishly smart child, I fear the day he assists big sister in world domination. I constantly feel like he is just sitting back and observing, figuring everything out until he's ready to make his move. Everything he does is decisive, planned. I think this year will be the year he really starts using proloquo and we find out just what's going on in there. I'm ready to hear his voice, whatever voice that may be. He is hopping and jumping and giggling and milk loving and tech savvy. He is (and always will be) my baby boy.

You know what else I want to celebrate? The day I became Mama. I didn't have a clue, not even a fraction of an idea, what that would feel like. Not until she was here. And I stared into those big solemn eyes and understood what love means. The day I realized I had no earthly idea what I was doing. The day I connected with and understood my own mother just a bit more, when I joined this wide network of wonderful women who have come before me. Mama. Mommy. Mother. What a wonderful word, what a wonderfully terrifying role. To be their Mama is an honor.

So. Even though I will want to be sad tomorrow, I will try to celebrate. We deserve that, don't we? To my Diva Girl and Vlad- Mama loves you. Always.

OK

His eyes are huge, framed by these long gorgeous lashes. And he looks up at me, face all innocence and voice like a little cartoon character. "It's ok buddy!"

He'd been bringing me the jug of milk and he'd lost his grip. The jug dropped to the ground and it made a loud thunk and I saw emotions flitting across his face in the flash of a second. First, surprise. Then for the briefest of moments, panic. And finally, by the time he looked at me, calm had kicked in. "It's ok buddy!"

He knew the words to say. He knew that his Mama would know it was a mistake. He comforted himself with the words he'd heard us say so may times. "It's ok buddy!"

And it was ok. No harm, no foul. I picked up the milk, poured him a glass, and his world was right again.

But I can't get that moment out of my mind. Today is a hard day. I'm in my head this morning, I'm worrying and overthinking and making mountains out of every problem. And just when I think that I want to curl into a ball and cry, his little voice pops into my head. "It's ok buddy!" And somehow, the words meant for him are now comforting me. I can just imagine him here, patting my back and giving me the kisses that my little Rascal is famous for. The picture, the memory of that little voice saying such simple words, brings a smile to my face.

Yup. It's ok buddy. Thanks.

My Name is Mama

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. In case you couldn't tell from the bajillions of people talking about it.

I was perusing my photos to find one of both me and my mom, and now I'm feeling awfully nostalgic. So many pictures of my mom, beaming with pride as she holds one of my little ones. Baby pictures of each child, pictures of me looking like I swallowed a beach ball. Going back and back, younger and younger, until I get to the first picture of Diva Girl, a 3D ultrasound of her perfect face.

To you? Looks like a sea monkey. To me? Perfection.

I never thought motherhood would be like this. So amazing and terrifying at the same time. No one ever told me that I would never feel like I had it all together, all figured out. That I would just be making it all up as I went along. And you better believe that no one told me, as I held my beautiful first child, that it was possible that one day she would have special needs. It was unthinkable.

Thank you for making me a Mama, Diva Girl

Now that I'm a mother with some years under my belt, I can't help but find new significance to Mother's Day. I wish I could throw my mother a parade. Because now I get it. I get that she probably didn't know what she was doing either. I get that she loved me so much she could never put it into words. I get that she worried about me and my future, that she still worries about me, and will until the day she takes her last breath. I get that in those awkward teenage years, she wasn't lying when she told me that I was beautiful- to her, the goofy hair and awkward limbs didn't change that I was perfect in her eyes. I get that she sacrificed for us, that she hurt for us, and even then she doesn't regret us for a second. I get why she still calls me her baby.

My Mama and Rascal

I often worry about what my kids will think of me one day. Will they resent the decisions we've made for their treatment? Will they remember the time I spent in front of the computer instead of the time I spent reading to and playing with them? Will they focus on the times that I've lost my temper instead of the times I've cuddled with them? Will they wish that I had been nicer, prettier, smarter, stronger?

Right now, no matter what I do, they call me Mama, and they say it as though Mama is something perfect and precious and wonderful. I don't think I can ever live up to the way they say Mama. But I take comfort in one thing- I know my mom isn't perfect, but she is my best friend. I can't go more than three days without talking to her. She is my cheerleader, my guardian angel...my Mama. If I end up as half as amazing as she is, I'll consider that a win. I just hope that my kids won't compare me too much to Grandma....because I'm pretty sure she has that one in the bag.

If I end up half as pretty as her, I'll be thrilled!

So, from one imperfect mother to another, Happy Mama's Day!