Boo

This month, Bailey, you turned six and there are some things that Mommy doesn't want to forget about you. 

You still play with Girl, the imaginary friend that appeared about the time Boston was born. You caught me tearing up watching Inside Out when Bing Bong disappeared from Riley's memory, but assured me that Girl would not suffer a similar fate. Your imagination is wild. 

You've swam in three swim meets, joined gymnastics, learned to ride a bike without training wheels, and run in your first 2.5K race. Your body is strong.

You're within weeks of completing your first year of formal schooling. I'm constantly amazed at all that your mind comprehends and your curiosity about the things that it doesn't. You love school work and experiments and made-up games with crazy rules (that you somehow always win, hummm). Your mind is sharp. 

You have memorized a new verse of the Bible every week for the past 36+ weeks. You recount Bible stories as we walk, keep us accountable to family devotions, and belt out worship songs in my classroom each morning as we wait for the big hand to be on the twelve. You even debated with your sister over whether God chases us, or we chase Him. Your faith is flourishing. 

You cling to Ibu Minah every Friday when she leaves. You smother your classmates with "huggy time" and insist on me leaving you with a lipstick kiss on your hand when I drop you off for school. You actually cried - real, giant teardrops - when I insisted that Kango (the insect of your invention that was literally falling apart) had to be retired to the trash. Your heart is soft. 

(And you might be a bit of a hoarder)

I am so proud to be your Mommy. 

And I hope that you always save the best bite for last. 

Momma

A few weeks ago, I found myself walking home from school, weeping.  I'd like to blame the John Mayer tracks that were coming through my ear buds, but it's been a while since "Say" brought me to tears.

No, I was teary-eyed over motherhood.  

You see, it wasn't your average walk home. It was a mid-day trek home to grab a swim bag so that Bailey could go to swim lessons after school. Usually our helper brings said swim bag to school at the end of the day and helps the girls navigate to and from their lessons and then takes them home. 

But this Monday found Boston sick, the swim bag sitting at home. 

After lunch I had a prep, so once I dropped my students off with their specialist teacher, I headed out of school instead of back to my classroom. I walked home, got the bag, and brought it back to Bailey's locker.

Such a little thing. So insignificant. So easy, even. 

But easier still would it have been to ditch lessons altogether. To have chosen the grading and prep work that sat on my desk over the sweltering walk to and from the house in my school uniform that still needed to look and smell presentable for the last two hours of the day. To let the truth of Boston's fever be a convenient excuse to miss swim for one week. 

And I'm not writing this to brag. In fact, as I began to cry over this moment of choosing my baby girl's swim lesson over my own work, and as I calculated that I was walking nearly 3K round trip for her, and as I debated whether or not to guilt her - even in jest - about what I had to endure to make sure she could still swim that afternoon, God brought to mind the mommas around the world that walk countless times farther each and every day to get water for their babies. 

And here I was crying over a 30 minute round trip walk for a swimsuit, towel and goggles. Can't forget the goggles. 

But it was exactly the simplicity of the moment that moved me. It was because it WASN'T a grand gesture of love that would be praised and memorialized and recalled for years to come. 

It's because she would never know the mini-sacrifice that her momma made that day for a swim lesson that doesn't mean diddly in the grand scheme of things. It's because I'd do it again if I had to. And I will do it, again and again and again for both of my babies whenever the need arises. 

And they will never know. 

And I don't know. 

I don't know how many times my momma put her things aside to take care of me. 

How many times her priorities took a back seat to my needs and wants. 

How many times she walked or drove back and forth across town for forgotten school supplies, or stayed up late to make soccer snacks that my eight year old self thought just magically appeared. 

For that I wept, Momma. 

For all the times I don't even know about when sacrificed for me, just because that's what mommas do.

I love you, a thousand times through my heart.