Mother's Day

(I sent this essay to my mother for Mother's Day this year)

Every year for Mother’s Day I walk the aisles of Target, peruse Etsy, and search Pintrest for the right gift.  Every year, the options fall short, because what is the kind of gift that says “I am sorry for giving you lice”?  Mother’s Day is tomorrow and my mom is still washing her bedding and replacing hair brushes.  What kind of gift could possibly negate the damaging effects of having been given an invasive parasite?

My mom’s favorite Mother’s Day gifts were the handprint crafts we made at school.  Add in some googly eyes or some cotton balls and that craft was definitely a keeper!  Being 32-years-old, it seems like a reach to break out a stamp pad and some construction paper, but what then do you give to say, “Look at the life you made!  Good job!”? 

While head lice is the most recent of the inconveniences afforded my mom by her children, it is not the worst of it.  I can think back to time when my siblings and I all had the chicken pox, one right after another, leaving my mom with at least one whiny, fevered, and grumpy child for a full six weeks.   Or the multiple times she (alone) made 12-hour drives with the three of us in tow (and on multiple years at least one kid was in diapers). Not to mention the last-minute costumes, forgotten permission slips, dirty laundry, the homework, the bleeding knees, the stomach viruses, the dates of the sporting events, the beautiful flowers planted years ago in anticipation of a spring bloom brought into the house in the dirty fist of a child, packed lunches, that year I grew four inches and had to get new clothes and shoes (twice), oh, and that other time I brought home head lice.

The things we have done to our moms. 

Since becoming a mom, I have found myself scrubbing vomit out of car seats, or lying in the cold tub with a fevered child, or losing a lot of sleep due my children’s bad dreams.  In those fearful, exhausting, and frustrating moments, I think of my own mom and I think- I know what to do because it was done for me.  

In my efforts to find the right gift, it finally dawned on me- the only gift I could give my mother, is love my children well.  To repress the gagging and smile at the sad, sick boy with his head in the trash can.  To sit next to my daughter’s bed at 2:30 am and rub her back, soothe, and assure her.  To stop what I am doing and savor because these are very moments that will float back to my children’s consciousness when the sweet weight of parenting lands on them.  When the decision to choose self or other is before them, they will, without thought, pick up the child covered in bodily fluid and love them well.