Mother's Day Musings

Mother's Day presents from Avery (age 8),  Reagan (age 5), and Logan (age 2).

Avery's card said:   Dear Mommy,

                                I love you!

                                You are sweet

                                and you are caring,

                                you are cuddley 

                                and very daring.

                                Yes, roses are

                                red and violets are

                                blue, and I don't 

                                know what I'd do

                                without you.

                                                 -Avery

                                                  oxoxoxox

                                                  oxoxoxox

Putting aside the fact that poetry from eight-year-olds is the best, I've found that I really like thinking of myself as cuddly and daring.  Cuddling with my children is one of my all-time favorite pastimes, and it's fun to know it's mutual.  But knowing that Avery thinks I'm "very daring" has me trying to think of ways I have been daring, and of ways to be daring now.   My sister Janna and I began training for amateur boxing competitions together last year.  I had one fight last March before we were ready, which I expected to lose, and did, but I was still grateful I had the chance to get in the ring.  Then I had another fight this March when I thought I was definitely ready.  I still lost.  It was a discouraging experience, and will probably be its own blog post sometime, but I've kept training.  I guess boxing is daring.  And I guess it is daring to keep on going after a set back, to plan to get back in the ring.  And then I thought of this blog, which I've been trying to write and putting off for seemingly forever now. And how it's become almost scarier to me than a boxing match.  And I decided to dare to write my first post.

Another time when Avery's words to (and about) me impacted the way I saw myself happened in February.  It was a few weeks before my fight, and Janna and I were talking about our boxing adventures and how I don't exactly look like what you would think of when you hear the word "boxer."  I look more like a... well...  housewife.  Anyway, Avery was in the room and overheard our conversation.  She looked up at me and said, "Well, you don't look like a boxer.  But, you don't look like you would be easily defeated."  I found her words surprisingly empowering.  I mean, she's eight. But something about knowing that Avery thinks I don't look like I would be easily defeated has given me more confidence.  I feel brave just walking around the grocery store.  And when I lost my fight, when I was defeated, I found comfort in thinking that I didn't look like it would have been easy for my opponent to beat me. And I don't look like it now.

Photo by Joel Peterson Photography

Today I was reminded that our words have power.  (Can you be re-reminded? Or is that re-redundant?)  Anyway, our words have power.  How we see people and what we tell them we see can change the way they see themselves.  As parents (it is Mother's Day after all), or other authority figures, sure.  But even as students, friends, eight-year-old daughters.  We are mightier than we know.

Finally, I know that Mother's Day, while joyful for many, can be difficult for many as well.   Kenzie Stanfield has bravely shared her own story of loss, love, life and laughter on her blog, The Stanfield Journey.  This morning, she posted this prayer on Facebook, and it has been with me all day.  Many of the lovely women she lifts up are my friends, my family, and often on my heart.  Kenzie gives them voice far better than I could. Her prayer is my prayer today.  Thank you, Kenzie.

Praying for those who are waking up to heartbreak this morning.  For those that miss their moms.  Just one more hug.  One more call.  For those that can literally feel the weight of the child that has gone before them.  The emptiness that creeps in and threatens to overwhelm.  For those who wait, broken, with empty arms, for the promise of a child to come.  Please lift all of these mothers up today too!