Postscript, Mother’s Day

. . . come and gone, in a flurry of texts, cards, calls, gifts – the days of hand made keepsakes and surprise pancake breakfasts – and the sticky counters in their aftermath – long gone.
Left to the grands, and their parents, our kids.
As they should be.

And, yet, there are the memories, mine jogged as a young woman, in shorts and T, pony tail bobbing, passed me on my morning walk, pushing a new little one in a stroller, with one hand, and holding a leash in the other, a helmeted child in the lead, peddling furiously and bumping along on training wheels.

I watched in amazement as the mom swooped down to pick up after her dog, without missing a step.

Oh, to be young, and a busy mother, stuggling valiantly to do it all, often with only one hand.

Unsung heroes, as suggested a tongue in cheek rumination on the heroics of mom hood, and the sometimes cluelessness of others, even our kids.

And, yet, truth be told, I wouldn’t give up a minute of the time spent with my kids, even the two year old having a melt down at the grocery check out, or the teenager rolling her eyes and giving me that look when shopping for swim suits or prom dresses.

Sure, I had my days, we all do, but the kids are the gifts that keep giving, as they grow and thrive, as their lives become full, as their days fruitful, and as our time together becomes ever more precious.

Heroic, nah.

Lucky, you bet.

And I would not have it any other way.