Mom

I love being a mom.

I love my baby. The way she tugs at my shirt collar or curls her hands around my fingers when she’s nursing. The way she pants in protest and then softly sighs right before she nods off nuzzled at my neck. The way she giggles and coos, eyebrows cocked, at the sight of her sisters running, playing, and making silly faces and goofy sounds.

I love my preschooler. The way she jumps right up in my lap and cups my cheeks in her hands. The way she tries out new phrases like, “check it out” or “no worries” or “how cool is that?” The way she opens herself right up to new experiences and new challenges saying “I can do it” or “I want to try.”

I love my little “big” girl. The way she waddles under the weight of her big girl back pack. The way she scurries from the playground to line up at the first sounds of the line up bell. The way she furrows her stubborn little brow as she writes new words; sounding each one out, determined and eager.

I love a house full of children playing. Their stomping feet upstairs, their world of make-believe. I love their high-pitched squeal-like singing, and their peaceful bedtime breathing. I love their hood-toweled, wet- haired, squeaky-clean faces (and little buns) running around the house after a bath. I love an excuse to bake cookies and make crafts. I love telling spooky, cooky stories; building secret hide-aways and nap time nooks. I love thinking of new games to play, of places to show them, lessons to teach them.

I love being a mom.