Mark takes the kids to the park almost every evening after dinner. It gives me time to clean up, and if I am really lucky, time to sit on the couch for half a second and just breathe. Today, they went marching out the door while I stood at the sink rinsing our marinara spotted plates, and I heard a shriek. Seconds later in walks Mark carrying both boys because Will wiped out in our garage. He bellowed "mmmmaaaammmmaaa" while choking back sobs and gasping for breath. Rest assured, he is fine. He didn't even break the skin, which makes today a good day, because no skinned knees is a rarity in this house. But, it did take me aback for a moment because I realized... I am a mother.
That thought did occur to me twice before. Once when they pulled Will from my womb and a second time when it was Jack's turn to be yanked out. But, after that... not really. I know I have kids (don't call the men in white coats just yet), but on a daily basis I feel more babysitter-esque. Just feed, clothe, rinse, repeat. Three times daily. Keep them alive in between. Check. But, when Will's shrill "mama" echoed through the house, I realized it was directed at me. I was mama. I could heal him.
I don't walk on water, but man... its pretty close. To be the mother of a young child is the closest thing to God on this planet. Luckily there are lots of us, so it doesn't go to our heads. But, we are magical. He is hurt and my lips heal him. He wants a cuddle and time stands still in mama's arms. Someone is mad at him and my words repair the damage. And, when he is wrong... my arms absolve him of his sins. He cried tonight until I kissed his wounds and hallelujah, he is cured. I am a mother. Weird.