I am exactly what you would call a mother hen, I watch over my little chickadees and yes, I do ship them thank you very much.
I see and hear every instant of their lives before it comes to fruition. Every aced class, ugly break up, and small house fire is a prediction in my mind.
My children are infuriating and stubborn, they fight and don't believe me when I tell them that a waterslide on concrete is a bad idea.
Still, when they come to me with scraped knees and broken hearts; I pull out my sewing kit talks and cookie dough nights to make it all better.
I am not a perfect mother, I struggle and falter like everyone in this world; but that makes me human. It makes me one of them, and all the more welcoming.
Emily's father dies suddenly when we are 13, she comes to my front door at sunset; we build a pillow fort and cry over ice cream buckets until the sun raises our spirits.
Josh breaks Hannah's arm, so we slave away over a stove to make her cinnamon hot chocolate that she accepts with a smile and forgiveness.
Michael begs me to help him ask Jess to prom, so I construct an arch out of butcher paper, and feel as though I'm giving him away on his wedding day.
Chris and I make snow angels and real ones for Ashley at Christmas.
Beth and Matt help me barbeque stuffed bell peppers on the Fourth of July.
You see, what a mother does has been stretched and morphed over the years. The media tells us that mothers are meant to be beacons of purity, gentleness, perfection incarnate in the form of a woman.
But being someone's mother does not require perfection. Only care and love are required for the job.
I do not pretend to love perfectly or even wholly, there are days when my children exhaust me to no end. I get tired and my world gets dark, just as everyone's does.
The difference is that I know the power of a smile, an ear to listen to, and an extra set of hands.
Mother's are a different breed, we know how to give. Most of all, we know how to receive our payment, through the happiness of others.