Yes, They Are All Mine

They were crawling the walls, almost, but not quite, literally. And arguing, which is now their normal means of communication, constant bickering pausing only long enough to make a disgusted face at the other which sends them into riotous laughter, and then they are right back at it.

The woman behind the counter looked at me, "are they yours?", as she gestured in their general direction, like people at the dog beach wave towards Eleanor. Not at all a "oh they're so cute, are they yours?" wave, but one of trepidation and maybe, horror.

Exhausted I proudly said yes, and then asked them to remove their small sticky noses from the glass display cabinet.

She had her God children last week, two of them, four and six, for five days. Her patience was shot, her fuse was short, she felt bad for the coworkers left to deal with her, she could not imagine how any sane person could manage one child, much less two. She was tired.

It is different when they are your own, not that they don't wear you down just as much, maybe even a bit more, but you are wholly vested in the end result, and there is some salvation in that. Even late in the day, when they have just knocked an entire row of bread off the table at the farmer's market, when they are soaked with rain water, not at all clean and deeply engaged in a heated battle over the correct lyrics to "Yes We Have No Bananas". Even then they are all mine.

But deep love for the children aside, where are these Godparents that take children for five days?

Finding Two Reasons to Celebrate

Six years ago Mother's Day fell on my father's birthday, as it does occasionally. But my father had died six months earlier, which had not happened before, and I was dreading the day. I was not a mother but I was ready to be, and then I miscarried, two days before Mother's Day. But that wasn't enough, our dear friends had asked Jack and I to be the Godparents to their wonderful son, we were honored and overwhelmed, and the baptism was to be on Mother's Day. So on my father's 62nd birthday, which he was not with us to celebrate, two days after miscarrying in my first pregnancy, I was to hold the infant son of one of my best friend's in a church and pledge to help raise him as a good Catholic, on Mother's Day.

Surprisingly being with people I love and holding a new baby proved to be exactly what I needed on what had promised to be a truly horrible day, and it wasn't.

The next year I spent Mother's Day at a Cubs game, five months pregnant, feet up and happy. Things had improved, as often they do. And each year I rejoice just a little bit more, ever grateful to have not one but two wonderful reasons to celebrate. While I'm thankful for the little people who made me a mom I also remember the many who have mothered me, the list is long, and I appreciate each and every person who taught me bits and pieces of all that I need to know: removing band aids quickly is really best, singing "I Eat My Peas With Honey" while eating peas really does make them taste better, written correspondence does matter, bodily functions are funny, laughing is important, loving is best, and singing is a great way to start the day.

Happy mother's day to all who mother, and to those who listen to us sing.