Their Mama

There are days when I’m not proud of myself. For me, Mondays and Tuesdays are usually good days. Family together time without the stress of having to handle it all alone leaves me refreshed. I’m ready to start the week and its responsibilities with a cheerful attitude come-what-may. As the week wears away, so does my patience. I’m snappy. Little things bother me. My list of chores I want to do but can’t find the time for becomes a burden. I fuss at a child for spilling a drink. I’m grumpy at dinner. I’m annoyed by the stalling and I hurry the kids to bed. When I’m engulfed by the night-time silence, I begin to think. Is this how I want my kids to remember their childhood—and me?

I want my kids to know I love them and I’m sure they do. But do I make a daily effort to show them? I want to stop and give the needed hugs. I want to really listen when they tell me a story. When they ask to go out to play, I want to put myself in their shoes before I give an answer. I want to give correction gently.

I want my kids to remember I was there for them. I mean really there. Not just an, “I’m here for you,” but I want to be physically there with them. I want to limit all outside “me” activities. I want to recognize any “need” for a break as the selfishness that it is and fully realize that God’s place for me now is not out with friends—though that isn’t wrong in itself—but home with my family.

I want my children’s memories of their Mama to be happy ones. I want them to tell their children about my smiles, about the fun games we played inside when it was raining outside, about the "hotdog man" I made them for lunch, about the stories I told while they were taking baths.

I want them to look back and remember my compassion, my joy, my faithfulness.