Mothers' Day

 This painting by Emily McPhee punched me in the heart with its haunting and beautiful portrayal of what it is to be a mother.

There is footage of my wedding day, Scott in a tux and me in my beautiful white gown, our families gathered around for pictures.  Scott is tossing a young cousin in the air, laughing with him and being playful.  I'm standing off to the side with a bored and impatient look on my face, fingers interlaced, thinking, "Cute.  Now put that grubby thing down now so we can get back to admiring ME on my wedding day."  I had an academic interest in children, knowing or at least planning that I would have some someday.  On a practical level, however...no interest whatsoever.  Little dresses, downy hair, handmade toys, they were all abstract ideas that I assumed would coalesce one day into quiet children playing at my feet while I did whatever I felt like doing.  My life would go on exactly the same, only I would be surrounded by cherubs in matching outfits.

That's what I thought it would be like, in the distant future.  So Scott's toddler cousin at my wedding was slightly annoying with his runny nose and noisy feet, hogging the limelight. Taking away from my glory with his golden locks and pint-sized suit.  There is a time and a place for adorable, and there was no time and no place for it in my life back then. 

A year and a half later, I was doing my violin-making graduation work 8 months pregnant.  It was a change of heart, and my heart just kept changing and changing, growing to encompass all the little souls who fell under the umbrella of my maternity.  Scott had the parenting instinct from the beginning, but I learned it by experience.  Looking at that wedding footage, we crack up because that girl in the beaded gown is, in some ways, a stranger to me now.  That girl was ignorant of the extent to which her mother carried her, long past the ninth month, or the ninth year.  She probably didn't even notice that her grandmothers and so many aunts were sharing the task of hoisting her to womanhood.  She didn't yet have an inkling of how many little children would reach their arms up to be carried by her, or how much she would love and treasure that weight, that journey.

Mom, Marlene, Big Golda, Nana Ruby, Aunt Tricia, Aunt Pat, Aunt Marla, Aunt Rita, Aunt Da...now I know.  Thank you for teaching me.