I don’t want to talk about my own mom because I could go on for days; she’s an enigma. She is someone I always figured would be there and be solid – and she has been – but the older I get the more of a mother I become, the more she baffles me. So, we’ll discuss me as mom.

The very first time I felt like an adult/mother, was in September after Elliot was born. I wrote the following in a blog entry:

As I carried Elliot in his car seat through the wooded path between parking lot and pediatrician’s office this morning, I had a sudden realization that for the very first time, I truly felt like a grown, responsible adult. Maybe somewhere subconsciously, I associate caring for your small child as being the adult marker. It just felt like I had reached a different level then, as I did something for someone who relies entirely on me.  ME! 

This was the beginning of feeling like a mom. At times, I still don’t feel like I look old enough or hell, I don’t feel old enough to be a mom. Be this my own reluctance to think youngerthan I am (33) or what, it’s an idea I grapple with constantly. I certainly love being a mom and obviously, that IS my life now. Nothing cements this more than when the boys get home in the afternoon and I am already there. They come bustling through the door, tripping over themselves and shouting “Mommy! Where are you, mommy?” They get SO excited just to lay eyes on me that it breaks my heart a little each time. Me? Really? The woman who nags you about using your shirt as a napkin, and gets on you about hitting your brother, and gets entirely way too exasperating while playing trains? I don’t know if kids love you by default but sometimes I use that as an excuse for my own guilt over possibly not being “the best” mother.

With Mother’s Day coming up, it’s a reminder to me to let that little stuff go and just appreciate those kids. They aren’t going to be little forever and these moments are too precious to ignore in favor of fretting over dirty shoes on the rug.