Today was a day. A day redeemed by a pair of Sycamore balls handed to me by my 2-year-old son.
"I got these for you, mama," he said. I am not sure he will ever really know how much I needed to hear that. And so now they sit on my fireplace mantle. I am pretty sure they will stay there forever. The Sycamore balls that saved the day.
The thing is, by 11 a.m., I had been hurled on three different times by my precious 3-year-old. He woke up in a funk, that one. Now I know why. His tummy hurt, he said, so I cuddled him in the chair - me in the middle, and Nico and Gabby on either side. And he hurled for the first time. All over all three of us. My poor sweet boy just stared into my eyes, terrified. Terrified and hurling.
It happened two more times. There were baths and showers and too many loads of laundry to count. And I was fine. Truly, I was fine. Because I am his mama, and being his mama and their mama is my greatest, greatest joy. Hurling and all.
But somehow, the husband's decision to go play soccer in the midst of all the hurling and the bathing and the laundry pushed me a little over the edge. Just a little.
Okay, maybe a lot. Maybe I had fantasized about a little break.
And so I sat back down in that puke covered chair with my son and thought to myself, "Mother's Day blows chunks." Literally.
Until my Noah brought me my balls (Oh, how I love that sentence.)
My sweet Noah went on a walk with his Oma and his Opa this morning in the hopes of deterring the stomach bug from taking root in him. And on this walk, he picked up the Sycamore balls and asked his Oma to hold on to them for me.
"I got these for you, mama," he said.
I almost allowed myself to forget that Mother's Day doesn't have to be wrapped in a shiny bow. Nothing about my journey to motherhood has, really.
And if it had, then I would have never had any of this -
Laying in bed in my Las Vegas hotel room with the baby boy I had wanted so desperately, convincing myself it was okay to put him down so I could go pee.
Welcoming this baby boy exactly one year and 13 days later the good old-fashioned way, staring at him for hours in wonder that he had actually been inside of me.
Reaching through the holes of that incubator to touch that little girl who fought so hard to be here, terrified out of my living mind that I may never be able to take her home.
They are my heart, these three. And nothing about three babies in three and a half years is ever all that shiny. Three babies who came in such different ways.
Shiny is overrated, though.
'Cause look at them. They're mine. My dreams come true.
"I got these for you, mama."
For them, a thousand times over. A thousand times.