The urgent desire to push and you’re ready.
There’s no formal training; it’s all on the job.
You’re ready, eager.
Anticipation is a drug coursing through your veins;
You’re high.
People surround you, love and well wishes rain down on you.
Your child is blessed.
You’re ready.
No one hands you an official training manual as you leave the hospital.
The one that says your kid may be such a polar opposite to you that it’ll be scary.
They don’t tell you how to handle the shy child that would rather read than shop.
The little genius content in their own world.
The wild bohemian running through your house with enough energy to light a small country.
No one showed you how to deal with potential hurt and personality clashes.
When your joy looks at you with disdain and your heart breaks.
No one told your baby, your promise, that you had no training.
No one explained that you were doing your best with the greatest love, the best joy in your life.
No one told your promise to be patient; you’re not perfect.
None of that matters now; it’s not precocious yet.
You are god and there is no talking back.
Your baby hasn’t slammed a door, rolled an eye, made you cry.
Yes, you’re ready; still high on the anticipation of this promise.
Then you wake up one morning and your baby knows everything.
They’ve eaten the forbidden fruit of life and are now wiser than you could hope to be.
Heads bump, moods shift, peace is rocked; love stands.
You are no longer ready.
As a mother, you weren’t ready for this.
You always said, not mine.
Yet today, it is yours.
Because there is no manual, you don’t know is that even when no longer answer on the first call.
Even though their bedroom door stays shut and the music is loud,
When their friend knows the important thing before you,
In the heart of your baby is a flame called mom.
Mother.
Mama.
Mommy.
That flame is protected and tended as carefully, as faithfully, as you tended your newborn babe.
Fuel is added when they receive a smile, when you brush a kiss across their forehead.
When you crack the bedroom door just to make sure they’re ok,
Even though they think they’re grown, behind the disgruntled mumble, their heart’s flame flares.
When you have occasion to say no,
When harsh words are exchanged, cold shoulders presented,
Your promise, covers the flame so that the winds of discord don’t touch it.
As you remember the day you brought them home,
Reminisce at their sweet smell and the way they snuggled up to you,
Your child remembers, also.
I remember the kisses when I fell,
The shelter when I was cold or frightened.
I remember that even when it seemed the answer was no more than it was yes,
Your yes stood for something.
I remember the security of your love.
Remember that even as I slammed the door and swore I hated you,
My heart cried and called me a liar,
Reminding me of the laughter and joy I only found with mama.
When I grow older, there is still a part of my heart that cries out in times of trouble.
The part where the flame is still protected that screams,
Mommy!
Our hearts memory recalls that in the deepest times of distress only you, mama, could offer comfort.
Now, as you sleep,
A part of my heart still cries out,
Still yearns.
My heart wants your comfort through this loss.
My brain screams as it scrambles to deal,
Only mama could get me through this, the toughest of moments.
I need you back to get me through this.
I know you can’t, and that’s ok.
I go to my hearts flame and am warmed.
Standing by that fire, I know I’ll make it still.
Knowing I would need more than you, you placed me in the presence of a great opportunity.
Crying, kicking and screaming.
Pinching, popping, glaring and smiling, you put me in the presence of a greater family.
Gave me the knowledge of a greater Father than even my natural father.
It is this Father and this family that offers me comfort and strength as you leave me.
They surround me with reassurance and love; joy.
It is this, the greatest gift a parent can offer their promise that I lean on now that I am unable to lean on you.
This is your promise, your legacy.
You, beloved, didn’t know it all.
You weren’t perfect.
There were times we didn’t agree.
You loved me.
You loved God.
You gave your girls a foundation built on the word of God.
I loved you.
I love you still.
(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012
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