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Mother’s Day.

We remember those marvelous women who flashed the porch light on and off to tell us to come in, who told us that you probably need stitches except it’s just a knee, who cheered for you at ball games, but had no idea what was going on (and couldn’t catch a ball to save her life), who passed out when the doctor took care of a nasty sty by jabbing a shiny, sharp object at a screaming child’s eye, who made sure the Easter Bunny gave everyone the exact same amount of jelly beans, who made me eat a pile of peas and my little sister only had to eat seven … seven peas … seriously?

*ahem*

Sorry, got carried away … possibly that was just my experience.

Really, though, my mom is the best. She got us everywhere we needed to be, signed us up for all the things so we could see what we liked, and what we didn’t. And while still being a great mom, she has become the bestest grandma ever.

Because I’m the mom. Wait. What? Granted, this happened a while ago. My son turns 13 this summer and my daughter turns 12. Yes, that does make me feel a little old, thanks for asking. And even though I have been answering to those wonderful voices screaming “MOM!” around the house for all these years, there are moments when the idea of me being someone’s mom just freaks me out.

Don’t get me wrong. Being a mom is one of the things I think I do well. That three inch button pinned to my purse that says “#1 Mom” says it all. I sign my two kids up for all the things they want, I get them there, I volunteer at school (and they still say hi to me), we play video games, catch, and volleyball, and have moments of general silliness (who doesn’t). I tell them they’re awesome everyday. And they roll their eyes. Just as it should be.

When they move out and begin lives of their own, I hope they think fondly of me as a mom. I hope they look back and smile, remembering me cheering for their sports teams, telling them that, no, we’re not having marshmallows for lunch, encouraging them to be happy being themselves, taking them to the movies, laughing when they drop a bowl of ice cream on the floor as ceramic pieces skitter across the tile, accepting my obsession with Harry Potter and everything weird and scary, and appreciating my generous helpings of sarcasm.

I may never fully embrace the strange concept of being a mom, but I have risen to the challenge with the greatness of mediocrity. My kids are awesome. I’d like to think I had something to do with that. Really I hope I don’t warp their minds … too much.

This year to celebrate me, we went to see a movie, my daughter baked me a cake (chocolate!), and there were cards full of wonderful words. Of course, I sent my mom a card wrapped up in love because without her, I wouldn’t be me. Maybe, if I’m lucky some of the best parts of me will continue on in my kids.

Yet, those moments will return when I marvel at the whole idea of me as a mom. Cause it’s strange. I’ll do the best I can, but can’t promise not to casually say, “Mom ran away …” every once in a while.

How do you celebrate your mom, grandma, or anyone who helped take you from childhood into adulthood (or whatever it is we have become, honestly I refuse to grow up)? Anyone else struck by the weirdness of parenthood?

 

 

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