As the melodic notes of a familiar song waft through the house, I pause, a smile creeping across my face. I quietly make my way down the hallway, peeking into my child’s room where he’s engrossed in his Lego creations.
“What are you singing, darling?” I ask, curious.
Startled, he exclaims, “Mom! You weren’t supposed to hear it! It’s a surprise!” His expression is one of mock reprimand, yet his bright smile reveals he’s not truly upset.
My heart swells as he responds, “I know you’re joking, Mom.”
Every Mother’s Day brings me a collection of thoughtful gifts: scrambled eggs with melted cheese, a blooming hanging plant, a fresh pair of running shoes, gardening gloves—often in shades of pink—and a nature hike through the Wissahickon. This year, I am also presented with four hand-drawn cards from my boys.
One card, crafted with reluctance by my eldest son, is minimalistic, featuring a simple illustration and a light-hearted joke. He hands it to me with a rare embrace, a fleeting moment of affection from my pre-teen who usually guards his feelings closely.
The second card, adorned with colorful markers, highlights my likeness—smiling broadly, freckles peppering my face, and a cape fluttering behind me. This masterpiece is from my imaginative ten-year-old, who offers an extended hug, his fingers stained with ink from his creative process.
Two more cards find their way into my hands, but I choose to delay my examination of them. My younger children, aged seven and four, wrap their arms around my neck and settle onto my lap. Though they no longer bear the scent of babyhood, they will always be my little ones. Glancing down, I catch a glimpse of the printer paper inscribed with the words, “I LOVE YOU, MOM.”
These simple yet profound words are crafted by hands that grip their pencils too tightly, letters formed with painstaking effort.
As I sit in a pew amongst other kindergarten parents, anticipation fills the air. I know my son is about to sing the same song I overheard him practicing. A lump rises in my throat as I see the children parade into the chapel, wearing an array of fun hats. My son, peeking out from beneath his hard hat, finally spots me. His grin, bright and infectious, warms me to my core. I wave, blowing him a kiss, and just as I brace myself, a tear slips down my cheek.
The song begins: “I won’t grow up…I don’t want to go to school…” I wipe away tears, feeling nostalgic for the magic of childhood and the innocence of my sons as they navigate their early years. I reflect on their growth over the past year; no longer the little boys they once were, but not quite teenagers yet.
I cry not just for the joy of my own family but also for the mothers facing unimaginable loss. I think of those who will spend Mother’s Day without their children, for mothers like Kate, who mourns her son’s absence this year, and the families affected by tragedies that have robbed them of cherished moments.
As the performance concludes, I hastily dry my tears, aware that my older sons may be embarrassed by my display of emotion. This Mother’s Day, I vow to cherish every moment—savoring my breakfast, enjoying my flowers, and relishing the hike despite any complaints.
For every mother whose children will never grow up, I will embrace the joy of being surrounded by my own. It is a bittersweet reminder of the fragility of life and the importance of appreciating each moment.
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In summary, this Mother’s Day is a poignant reminder to appreciate the simple joys of motherhood while being mindful of those who cannot share in the same experiences.
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