Momming: 17 Years Strong

Emma Zoe and Me ~ Approximately 17 years ago.

Today, my first baby... the girl who changed me from a selfish, ridiculous 20-something into a mom... that sweet little girl...  She turned 17 years old today.  Seven.TEEN. Years. Old.

Yesterday, she came scrambling up the stairs at 7:50 a.m. and informed me that she needed to be to work at 8:00 a.m.  I had eggs cooking in the pan and was planning to leisurely eat them while sipping coffee.  Instead, I left them to get cold and grumpily drove her to work.  I hurled out words like responsibility, communication, consideration, and other scoldy words.

Today, I browsed through a ton of old photographs and marveled at how far we've come, her and I.  I remembered when the nurses told us we could finally take her home after a lengthy stay in the hospital and I frantically looked at her dad and said, "Are they really going to let us take this baby?  We don't know what we're doing!"  I saw her precious moments of creativity, play, friendship, discovery that all led to this person she is today.

This girl may struggle with managing time, but she is all sorts of other great things.  She is kind and friendly and funny and smart and works so very hard.  She has all sorts of goals and together we are trying so hard to make them happen.  She sees kids being handed keys to cars that are nicer than mine; she hears about team mates who have time for two workouts a day to prep for sports seasons while she has time for zero workouts a day because she works a zillion hours a week so we can afford a few things for her.  She could blame me for poor planning and life skills, but she doesn't.  This girl... she knows a few things about grace.

And that's parenting.  Equal parts awe, regret, wonder, and frustration.  And a huge, heaping helping of...LOVE.  This love, the love for my children....  It's the most unselfish, unconditional love in the world.  They could literally do anything...any bad, horrible thing...  and I would love them with ferocity.  I love my friends and family members, but I LOVE my children.

And yet, they drive me crazy.  So darn crazy.  I sigh with relief when they are all gone and I have a few minutes to watch some crappy reality tv and clean the house.  I get frustrated and drained by the everyday, mundane, and thankless tasks...  the many socks that I pick up off the floor...  the half-empty cups left all over...  the messy rooms and piles of laundry... the chauffering and seemingly endless requests for my very finite amounts of time and money.  I feel like a failure and a hack on the regular due the scoldings and arguments and pouty fits (theirs and mine).

And then, there's the magic.  The moment their eyes light up when they see me.  The times their hearts are breaking and I am the one who knows how to help them begin to mend them.  The trust they place in me to see them through all of it.  The daily transformations that have brought them from chubby babies to adventurous toddlers to inquisitive and creative school children to now....  I've gotten to be there for all of that.  I'm so darn lucky.  I don't deserve them, most of the time.

Seventeen years ago, I became a mama.  I had no idea what that meant, really.  I just knew that the moment that child took her first breath, I was hopelessly in love with her and with mothering.  I'm not the mom she and her sisters truly deserve.  They have not had the life I had dreamed of for them as I felt them kick in my belly.  They have given me so many grey hairs!  But, I would not trade a single second.

Now, go pick your dirty clothes up off the floor and stop bickering, for the love...