Journey of the Heart—Thoughts of Faith
A friend and I were in a fabric store years ago with our children—four preschoolers to be exact. The saleslady gave us an evil look as soon as she spotted the children. As my friend, Kim, and I sorted through fabrics and patterns, our preschoolers found the remnant pile.
Stacks of flowing chiffon proved irresistible for them. And being children, my daughter, Corinne, her sister and friends draped several pieces over their heads. “Look at me, Mommy!” Corinne smiled underneath the sheer lavender material wrapped around her head like a turban. “I’m beautiful.”
The saleslady, either childless or long past the childrearing years, snatched the fabric off her head. “Are you going to buy this?” she demanded, glaring at me.
“Yes, I am,” I quietly answered, a rosy blush creeping up from my neckline. Subdued, Kim and I gathered up our children and quickly left the store. It was obvious from the saleslady’s parting look how she rated our mothering skills.
We made our way for an early lunch to a restaurant—a sit-down, child-friendly place but not McDonald’s. The all too familiar anxiety, guilt and inadequacy fought for dominance as I placed our order with the waitress. Feeling like a failure in the motherhood department again, I worried how my typically good girls would behave. But we had a nice, relatively peaceful meal—what with cutting up a grilled cheese sandwich for one child, restocking a sippy cup for another and trying to eat myself.
On the way out of the restaurant, a lady, a stranger, stopped me, her hand on my arm. She smiled. Her eyes shone. “What beautiful children you have,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You are a fortunate woman and a good mom.”
My head snapped up. Her grace and encouragement flooded over me like dry, thirsty ground soaking up spring rain. “Yes,” I answered. “Yes, I am.”
For you moms out there, I remember with you the joy of the first steps, the first words, the last diaper and the first big “girl/boy” pants. We remember the sleepless nights, the debris from both ends of our beloved child that somehow always seemed to land on us. We remember the tears. And the prayers.
But today on this Mother’s Day weekend, I want to remind you—in case you’ve had a rough week/year—no matter how young or old your children are, you are/we are indeed fortunate women.
And, good moms.
At least, I am . . . until 8:31 p.m. every night. Then, all bets are off.
God bless your Mother’s Day.
I’d love to hear your favorite motherhood memories.