There are some mornings, like this one, when I am good mom. I make sausages and deliver them, carefully placed on a plate with a tiny bowl of maple syrup, to my 11-year-old, who is watching his morning dose of TV. I bring him a mug of hot chocolate sprinkled with marshmallows. He smiles and looks, frankly, surprised. "Hot chocolate?" he says in delight. "For me?"
Yes. Hot chocolate, for you. Because you are just a few inches shorter than I am, but for now you are still shorter. Because you are my blond, blue-eyed baby. Because you have dimples and smile. All the time.
I am not usually good morning mom. I usually grunt, "Make yourself some pancakes" (those would be the microwaveable kind) or "Pour yourself a bowl of cereal." I am usually glued to my laptop in the morning, if I'm not out running.
But some mornings, I want to nurture and please. Some mornings I am suddenly struck with the awesome knowledge that this is my privilege. That making a cup of hot chocolate is an honor. That seeing the grateful smile of my third child is a gift so far beyond ordinary that no one can possibly describe it.
It is simple, this mother love. It comes in waves of memory or quick blinks of realization that the years are limited. Some day, in just a few years, I won't have anyone around who delights in hot chocolate or who wraps himself in an afghan while watching cartoons.
A few days ago, he sheepishly stopped me as I was about to hug him goodbye. At youth group. His eyes said, "I love you, but please don't hug me here." I smiled. He knew I understood.
I give it this way while I can.
Linked up with Amy's Finer Things Friday