My Mom

Here's a morning most Moms will recognize. (If you know Hebrew, insert the word yada there.)

I got up this morning after hitting snooze five times, stumbled into the bathroom, took a shower (and washed my hair, which should be an Olympic event due to the thickness and length thereof), got dressed, broke up a fight, admonished kindness, threatened no treats for the rest of the day if clothes were not procured immediately, remembered Natalie's class was celebrating pajama day today thus negating the need for said clothes, told Connor he did not have the same luxury, gathered crying baby from bed, fed crying baby, changed diaper, pushed tiny limbs into tiny onesie while cooing at tiny smiling face, directing the hoards downstairs for morning sustenance, poured Raisin Bran Crunch for Connor, pleaded with Natalie to eat something, anything, "it's the most important meal of the day," gave up trying to get Natalie to eat breakfast, resigned myself to raising a child who will most likely fail her SATs due to lack of morning sustenance, plucked crying infant out of hateful bouncy chair, tried to eat Kashi while holding infant in lap, wiped milk drips due to lack of hand-eye coordination off of infant's head , forewarned children that The Bus O' Mom would be leaving in 5 minutes, gathered last-minute school supplies and Natalie's lunch, balanced supplies and lunch and coffee and baby on trip down stairs, ran back up the stairs to get coats and snow pants and gloves out of dryer where they had been stuffed last night after a very wet and wild last-minute sledding party at Angie's, helped kids put on coats (no coat for Mom, since the Coat Boycott is already underway), buckled happy infant in car seat, steeled nerves for the wailing that was about to ensue, corralled everyone into the car, backed out of the driveway and saw that we were on time for school.

And that was just the first 90 minutes of my day.

Being a Mom is tough work. Amen?

This is a particularly tender truth to me today, because today, my Mom is celebrating a Big Birthday. I won't risk her wrath by reporting her age (although she would have no idea how to avenge herself here, since she and computers are not on speaking terms). Let's just say it's one of those birthdays when living 2,000 miles away from my family really stinks.

So instead of a warm hug from her oldest daughter, she's getting this -- a tribute on the World Wide Web. Which isn't altogether a bad thing, because it gives me the chance to brag on her a little and tell you she's my Mom Hero.

Ever since she was a little girl, my Mom has always wanted to have children. She loves children. She's great with children. In fact, before she met my Dad, she was a nurse who spent much of her time working with children.

So it's probably no surprise that her first baby (that would be me) was born only 14 months after she got married.

(First, a picture of my parents, avant moi. Aren't they stinkin' adorable?)
(Look Mom! That French I took in high school is paying off!)




















Childbirth was no picnic. In fact, if you want to see my Mom get excited and my Dad stammer, ask about the time my Dad left my Mom while she was in labor in the hospital so he could go home and take a nap.

(I know!)

But it must not have been too bad. (Either that, or she has a really bad memory.) (Wait. ... Where was I? Oh yes!)

She kept having babies. Sadly, none were as cute as me. But God bless 'em for trying.

In a few short years, our family looked like this:

















(Well, hello 1980. How have you been?)

(My siblings are so loving me right now.)

But here's the thing. The serious thing. The thing I sat down to say. My Mom gave birth to four children, raised us all to love the Lord, love each other and cook (well, not that last one, but not because she didn't try) and SHE LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT.

I can honestly say her family is her crown. Her family is her joy. Even on the hard days -- and with four loud children, I suspect there were more than a few -- I daresay her heart was full. She had her children and her husband around her. Nothing else mattered.

Of course, she did all sorts of "Mom" things. She got up early to pack our lunches. She made us a hot breakfast every morning, even when we all went to school at different times. (Even when one of her daughters complained bitterly of being teased for smelling like bacon at high school. Why couldn't she just dole out cold cereal like the other Moms? Why did she have to torture her teenager with French toast and syrup and bacon?!?) She did all our laundry. At one point, she sewed a ton of our clothes -- until she realized that was insanity with four kids. She baked everything from scratch (still does), created fabulous traditions and memories for our family (like the ornament one I described here), made art projects and picnic lunches and took us swimming and apple picking and sledding.

(And did I mention she's a pastor's wife?)

Even more importantly, she always took time to just be with us. When we were young, she played "Candy Land" and "Chutes and Ladders" and Hot Wheels and restaurant. As we grew, she came to every play, game, concert and court hearing we threw her way. Now that we're grown and scattered, she spends hours listening to us ramble talk on the phone. She laughs with us, cries with us and always -- always -- points us to Jesus.

Now that I have three children of my own, I'm in awe of her accomplishments. I'm in awe of her heart. I'm in awe of her love. I'm in awe of her ironing skills.

She is everything I hope to be to my kids -- and more.

A few minutes ago, when I called to wish my Mom a happy birthday, she told me that one of her favorite Bible verses has always been James I:17, which says (in part): "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father."

I know she believes her family is a gift.

I believe she is ours.

Happy (big) birthday, Mom. I love you.

P.S. Remember, I'm your firstborn. I know you love me more. It's OK. I won't tell anyone.

P.S.S. That was to help you stop crying. See? Funny stops the tears. Right?