Happy Mother's Day

I've started and stopped four different versions of this Mother's Day post.  

Type and typed, then read and re-read only to erase because what I was trying to convey just wasn't coming across the way I wanted it to. 

I'm trying to say how little I really knew about being a mother until I actually was one myself. 

How I never really thought I could love another little human so unconditionally. 

How I never thought I could protect someone else and their feelings with such fierceness. 

How I never realized in the dark hours of night I would long to hear the shallow breaths of a sick child. 

How much sticks and stones do break bones.  

And words really do hurt. 

And how to control my feelings of anger when those hurtful words were directed at a child of mine. 

That I would happily give up late nights of partying with friends for early mornings at a soccer/football/basketball/volleyball game. 

That I would one day miss the sweet innocence of a little girl in love with a purple dinosaur as Barney went by the wayside for boyfriends and heartbreak and girl drama. 

That my day off would consist of loads of little people laundry who couldn't wash, dry or put any of it away themselves. 

That when those little people could actually do that for themselves, I would miss folding little socks and hanging little shirts. 

That anyone could survive on PB&J, Mac n cheese, and spaghetti for years. 

That I could survive on very little sleep for years. 

That the smell coming from a 14 year old boy's room/gym bag/locker does not actually indicate there may be a dead, rotting corpse of some kind in there. 

That I would argue and advocate for someone else's needs over mine in a hot second.  

I never really thought I would drive a mini-van. Then sell it, only to miss it and buy another one. 

I never fathomed how full my heart would be when I heard someone call me Mommy for the first time. 

Or the bajillionith time. 

How I would feel defeated when one of my little people did. 

And that I had the ability to make them feel less defeated. 

That I would need a Kleenex with me at every game, recital, program, or event because overwhelming pride makes me cry like a baby. 

That little people would rely on me. And look up to me. 

That I would base a home search on school district boundaries. 

And vacation destinations on the nearest Children's hospital. 

That it would be the hardest, most gut wrenching, heartbreaking yet rewarding and joyful job I would ever have. 

That payment for this job would come in the form of kisses and hugs and laughter and misspelled handmade cards. 

I never thought I would have to be so strong. And that I could be so strong. 

If someone had warned me of all of this, I'm not sure I would have done it. 

And I would have missed out on the best thing in life.