Yesterday my middle child, my first son, my rainbow baby graduated from kindergarten. Earlier this year I proudly said I didn't mind my kids growing up. "I'm enjoying each stage of their little lives!" "It's fun to watch them grow!" But when the music at graduation started yesterday so did my tears. He was so proud and stood so tall and sang so loud. He said his name clearly and gave the principal a high five and then it was over. He's headed to big school.
I went to work and did sports physicals for the Jr High. The now 5th graders who will be going to 6th grade next year came over for their physicals. Do you know how old these kids were? Eleven. My oldest is 9. Did you do the math there? In 2 years she will be going to Jr High. Wait. What? Jr High? Not my sweet giggly baby girl. But then I looked at her and realized she's not a baby.
In a discussion yesterday I discovered there are young girls in my midst who do not have a mother to take them shopping for female essentials. Or who recogrnize when it's time to go shopping for them. When I got home last night I told my husband "if I die before my daughter reaches puberty please don't ignore the signs. Please get my sister or yours to take her shopping."
Then I took my coffee onto the back porch and cried. I cried because I'm so very proud of who my children are and who they are becoming. I cried because I can't stop time and some days I'm not sure if I want to. I want to enjoy each precious moment and I don't always know how. But God knows.
After dinner my 2 y/o grabbed me by the hand, drug me into the family room, sat in his favorite chair and said "thit down me". So I did. I snuggled his little body in close to mine. It wasn't long before the 9 year old was snuggled up with us too. Then my hubby started a video game competition. The 6 year old beat us all once. It ended with kids wrestling on the ground and lots of giggles. God knew what my mommy heart needed.
Some days I have to clean the house. But someday I choose to play.
Happy Mother's Day to you all!
No comments:
Post a Comment