Often, I look at you and my eyes well, but I have to hide it lest you think I’m sad.
You’re not yet aware that emotions can be as vast and complex as a country, or as small and specific as the freckle on your leg. That each tear has a different DNA.
I wish, like all mothers, that I were a better one. More patient and giving. Selfless. That I didn’t have to fight so to give you all of my attention, my time. That I enjoyed cooking dinner, taking care of the house. Those aren’t empty words. I know I could do more.
I sometimes think I’d be more that way if I hadn’t discovered writing. Or if it hadn’t found me. Then I remember my own mom, and wish she’d taken a little more for herself when I was your age.
I’m still searching for the right balance of you and me.
But here’s the thing: I know you love me. And you know I love you. We say it, we buy cards that brocade it, and we give big bouquets of sunflower hugs and forget-me-not kisses that require no spring or holiday.
You are more than me, more than your Dad. You are the baby I nursed, the toddler he swung, the child asking, “But why?”
You are the breeze in my heart, the anchors to my legs, and the ocean of love that is the source of those tears.
I love you both. And thank you for letting me by your Mom.