Simple Sunday - My Own Dear Mother

~ how could I choose anything else on this oh-so-special day, but to say that I'm thankful for my wonderful mother!...it's mind-stretching to think about all the life that she's lived, from the days of being this adorable little toddler... 

...to the woman that she is today...I can never thank her enough for all the ways she's loved and cared for me, from the day she gave birth to me 33 years ago all the way to yesterday when she responded to my cry for help by saying, "sure, I'll take Tobin for an hour or two so you can get some things done!" and "of course, I'll play the piano for that unfamiliar hymn you want to lead in the church service tomorrow"...I can't fathom where I would be today without her gentle guidance and sacrificial love...I love you, Mother, with all my heart!

In honor of the occasion, here's another poem by Elizabeth Laing Thompson from the book The Tender Years: Parenting Preschoolers.

I'm Still Here

Michelin-Man legs kicking and flailing,

with a mighty grunt

you heave your roly-poly belly over,

then crane your weeble-wobble head around

to see where I went, though I have not moved--

I smile.

"I'm still here."

Breakfast time, your pancakes wait;

you clamber up to gobble, squealing, "Cake-cakes!"

I sip my coffee on the couch behind you;

you cast glances over your shoulder to find me--

twinkle-eyed, you flash that syrupy heart-stopping grin.

I laugh.

"I'm still here."

First day.

Your thin fingers squeeze mine in a death grip,

but soon you scamper off, hand-in-hand with a new friend;

every so often you pause to take sly peeks

at the pack of chatting Mommies--

I wave.

"I'm still here."

"Here is fine, Mom."

I brake, a dozen yards from the swarm of 

bookbag-burdened pre-people.

I turn to hug you, but the door is already shut,

your back melting into the mob, disappearing.

I sigh.

"I'm still here."

A shrill ring jangles me from a noontime armchair nap.

Little shouts and babbles tumble in the background

as we laugh across the miles.

A squeaky lisp interrupts, the line crackles; you chuckle.

"Are you there, Mom?"

I nod.

"I'm still here."

A rattling disturbs my dreamy haze--

my own ragged breath.

A soft hand brushes cool against my forehead,

a lilting voice, warm as honeyed memories, sings lullabies--old friends.

"Don't stop," I say, even as I drift.

I smile.

You whisper, "I'm still here."