Some of you may remember Joshua’s mysterious chest pain that started many years ago, and the fact that we had a COMPLETE hours-long cardiac workup that found nothing, but left us with assurances that he would not drop dead on the basketball court.
Well, last year he ended up in the ER with his pain and the doctor there said right away, “this child has asthma”, gave him some albuterol and sent us home. Well, he was right. It took us 5 years to get someone to figure that out. I guess maybe this is why people thought I should have a pediatrician instead of a family practitioner with a focus on medical cosmetics (no, I am not kidding). Anyhow, we finally met with our new pediatrician in order to get him an inhaler for sports. He used it for the first time this weekend before soccer and immediately said, “wow, I can breath in all the way, my lungs feel totally open!” Talk about guilt. Five years this kid has suffered as his mother decided, “we can’t find anything wrong with him, I guess running just won’t be his thing!” He played his soccer game and reported that using the inhaler made a world of difference.
I think this post is very fitting to post on Mother’s Day considering my “Mother’s Day Guilt” that I talk about in the post prior to this that I didn’t actually post because it seemed very negative and as they say, “if you don’t have anything nice to say, SHUT THE HELL UP!”
But to summarize, I am not a Hallmark Mother, I never will be, and it is Hallmark Mother’s for whom Mother’s Day is intended. You know, mother’s who always listen when their kid is talking, mother’s who are always compassionate and ready with the 800th band aid of the day, and mother’s who read to their kid every single night. That is just not me. I don’t think that I am a bad mother, quite the contrary. But I do sometimes make a grocery list in my head as one of the children goes ON and ON about a book they are reading, or tell them that they do not need a band aid, and sometimes I tell them that I am just too tired to read tonight. Shhh. Don’t tell Hallmark!
However Gary thought that as a mother I did deserve some recognition. As Matthew, Gary and I were hanging out in my bed this morning I was a little sad that they decided to go downstairs, but minutes later they were back, with breakfast for me! Then we came downstairs together and had coffee while the other children gave me the best gift of all, they slept late!
This article says it great:
This is for all the mothers who didn't win Mother of the Year.
All the runners-up and all the wannabes. The mothers too tired to enter or too busy to care.
This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see my goal?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who don't.
What makes a good mother? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.
This is for reading "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then reading it again, "just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who aren't perfect. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2-year-old who wants ice cream before dinner.
This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
For all the mothers who bite their lips- sometimes until they bleed- when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green.
This is for all the mothers who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won't stop.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.
This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the words to reach them.
This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.
This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without. Single Mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money and mothers without.
This is for you all. So hang in there. And better luck next year, I’ll be rooting for you.