A Vision in Pink Footy Pajammas
She emerged timidly from her room this morning, unsure of the reception she would receive. Her face just melts me.
Love, hugs and cuddling. A serious talk about what she did, why we were upset, what the consequences will be. She lays her head against my chest and I stroke her hair.
I cried for a long time last night when she was finally asleep. I wanted my mommy.
“They” say ‘you hurt the ones you love the most.’
I say ‘you are hurt the most by the ones you love.’
If I didn’t give everything, mind body and soul for these kids, it wouldn’t hurt so much when they gave me that mocking look, the look that says, “I don’t need you. I can do what I want. Shove it, mom!”
I question everything. Everything about being a mother makes me question myself, my preconceptions, my feelings, my treatment of the kids. Am I saying the right things, being too rough, too lenient? Will some flippant comment I make be the subject of therapy years from now? Or will it be something I didn’t say or do, but should have?
We’re making people here, folks. This is serious business.
The DYM ain’t laughin’ today. I’m not crying either, just thinking.