By Hannah Schenker
As Mother’s Day approaches I remember that it’s not about the cake I want to bake you, it’s about the love I fold in to the batter. It’s not about the gifts I would love to buy for you, it’s the generosity of spirit that lives within my heart. It’s not about the handmade card that I know you will keep forever with all the rest, but about the lifetime of shared experience that cannot be expressed through the pen.
It’s not even about the day, it’s about the everyday – the texts, the Facebook tags, the cup-of-tea catchups. It’s about telling you how much I love you on any given day.
As a 35-year-old woman, I am now already older than you were when you had me. I imagine you at my age, holding me in your arms, singing me songs. As I quietly wait and wonder if I will ever hold my own child in my arms, I remind myself over and over how fortunate I am to be loved by you. To know that I have someone I can turn to, again and again, in need and in celebration – it is the deepest sense of security I know. Everything else can come and go, but that love is the bedrock of my life.
To know that I have someone I can turn to, again and again, in need and in celebration – it is the deepest sense of security I know.
This is what I would like to bestow on my own child. A love that doesn’t quit. A love that gently encourages true nature to emerge, innate gifts and talents to be witnessed and affirmed. A love that lets go and allows. A love that respects and encourages and guides. A love that transforms.
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