Besides, of course, a million dollars, five minutes of silence, and a chance to use the bathroom ALONE.
I don’t know what other moms want for Mother’s Day – but I am a mom, and I know what I want:
I want to be known. And I want to be loved.
I want assurances that I am doing more right things than wrong things – that I’m helping my children more than I’m hurting them. I want to hear that my mistakes are okay; that I don’t have to be perfect.
I want acknowledgement that I am trying my best at this whole mothering thing – even when I’m tired, and even when I’m mad, and even when I just don’t know if I can do it anymore. And I want to hear that it’s admirable to try my best, even on the days when my best isn’t very good. Especially on those days.
I want to believe that folded laundry and organized Tupperware cabinets aren’t measures of success – or lack of it.
I want to get credit for my thoughts, not just my actions. I want the time I spend looking out my kitchen window, thinking of and praying for my kids, to find itself a place in response to the question, “What did you do today?”
I want to have room in my heart for all the times of the past, all the things happening right now, and all those yet to come – I want to parent past-mindedly, present-mindfully, and future-mindfully. And that means I need a bigger heart, so I want that, too.
I want to zoom out and see where I fit in the big picture; to understand where we’re coming from and where we’re going. I want to see into the future and know that our children and their children will be in it, prospering.
All these things that I want for Mother’s Day are going to have to wait. Because while I’m still celebrating here on Earth, I won’t meet the One who can calm my fears, give me assurances, and really know my heart – at least not face-to-face.
And so I listen to the ones closest to Him: the ones who gift me jewelry from my own dresser, wipe their noses on my skirts, keep me company in the bathroom. The ones who cry about eating their dinner, don’t want to pick up their toys, stamp their feet about taking a bath.
They don’t judge me by my laundry or cluttered cabinets. They remind me of the memories that I have forgotten and make me promises about the future and the grandchildren in it. They think I’m beautiful, and that I can solve any problem. They missed me before they were born, when they were still in Heaven, they tell me. They forgive me when I let them down. They accept me for who I am, even when they don’t like it.
And that’s what I want for Mother’s Day. That, and also the five minutes of silence.