mom, momma, mother.

I went to New York last week. And I had a blog post written detailing all of the beautiful, hilarious, magical moments. But instead of filling you all in on the best graduation surprise ever, I want to just talk about moms. 
Mother's Day is quickly approaching, you know. It's a holiday I've loathed since I was tiny, and I have never looked forward to it. 
But this year, I'm taking a look at my world. I'm spending some hours and minutes digging deep into my mother-heart. And I'm finding a couple of things. Over and over again. 
1. I was made to mother.  2. I am rich with mothers. 
I was made to mother. I mother everyday. Without knowing it or calling it "mothering", I mother the world that shows up at my doorstep. I mother even though I'm not married and even though I've not squeezed a hand during a contraction. 
I mother. 
Because I'm called to it. 
This desperate catapult of a life-jacket to a drowning sister, toddler, teenager, working professional, grandmother with soft and thin skin, or that blonde ragamuffin who always shows up at your door the second you've turned off the ignition. 
I mother because I can't not. 
I mother because there are hearts that have been hurt and need a soft, safe place to simply come undone. I mother because the toddler needs help going potty and because the eighth grader kissed a boy. I mother because she locked her keys in the car so I call AAA for her and wait. 
Because, of course. 
This is what mothers do. 
I've watched it. 
You give yourselves away, little bits and pieces of who you are. of your courage, of your deep faith. Even on the nights when you're most afraid. You bear down and find ways to bring life to people just desperate for air. 
The mothers. Wrinkled foreheads and hands wrung wondering if they matter. 
I see you. You matter. 
I see you. Throwing your hair up in a ponytail when you hear "mama!" coming from down the hall as you wipe sleep from your eyes. I see you grabbing coffee as you smile across the countertop. 
I see you. Choosing to take the phone and listen to the scared and crying high schooler as she wonders how she will make it one more day. 
I see you. At the store with your yoga pants, little Superman hanging off the side of the cart, and the baby in the seat chewing on the handle. I see your kids eating their toast, still in their pajamas with little Elsas all over. I see your patience as you answer the thirty-fourth question in five minutes while simultaneously finding the groceries on your list. And the smile you give them. I see that too. 
I see you. Hauling your two littles into McDonald's (yes, McDonalds). One kid hanging on your leg as your maneuver the infant car seat. I see you chasing down little Houdini as he escapes from your hand yet again. I see your exasperated sigh... and I watch it dissipate as you see that ketchup smeared smile and can't help but smile back. 
I see you. Staying up until the wee hours of the morning to make sure he is home safe. 
I see you. Running a classroom of thirty with ease, as though it's the highest privilege and pleasure and you can't imagine being anywhere else. I see how they watch you. and I see how they love you. 
I see you. Reading Go Dog Go for the fourteenth time in a row, giggling with your tiny one each time you get to the fancy hat-with-all-the-things-hanging-off part. Yes, I see the laundry in the corner. But then I see you snuggle in close, smile, and go for the fifteenth time. 
I see you. Striking up conversation with the widowed man at the dog park. I see how he lights up at your interest in his story, at your interest in who he is. I see how you light up, too. 
I see you. When the little tap on your shoulder comes one too many times and before you can think, the words, "Just STOP it already" come spilling out and cut deep and you feel terrible. I see you doing the hard thing... swooping down with an "I'm sorry" and kisses and a big heap of humility. And I see the smile you share. 
I see you. Reminding her of her worth, reminding her that her cancer is not her definition. Reminding her of her identity. Reminding her of the promises. Reminding her of goodness. I see her tears of gratitude.
I see you. Exhausted and terrified that your teenage son doesn't know you love him, so you call him. Just to remind him of your undying love and forever bond. 
I see you.
I see so much incredible. I see the incredible of your normal everyday. The incredible of little people with pudgy hands calling you mama. The incredible of people calling you friend, calling you confidante, calling you a safe place. Yes, you. Messy, beautiful, grateful you. 
I see you. 
And I'm thankful for you. 
I was made to mother. 
And I am rich with mothers. My part-time mommas with full-time love and full-time heart-space. 
Erin. Ears always open. Taught me that home is a safe place that can be trusted and valued.  Erin. Tough to crack, but genuine and refreshingly honest. Taught me that risk can be responsible and dreams are necessary.  Cindy. Strong, but gentle. Taught me that vulnerability is beautiful and homemade waffles can fix any bad day.  Connie. Organized, but flexible. Taught me that spontaneity is worth it and marriage is forever. Mandy. Selfless and hospitable. Taught me that the cliche isn't crazy; moms can be your best friends.  Carolyn. Beautifully patient. Taught me that spilled milk can be easily cleaned and family is a priority. *I miss you* Pam and April. My long lost nanny and her mama. Taught me that love withstands distance and time.  Brandi. Faithful and true. Taught me that perseverance pays off and consistency is key. 
I am rich with mothers.
Rich with mothers who taught me that I was made to mother. 
Happy Mother's day, mommas. I get to watch a generation rise up because of you. and I couldn't be more grateful. 
Much love.