You all have no idea how much I have enjoyed the comments you left on the previous post about your mamas.  You have NO idea. I loved loved loved reading each and every one.    

Some of your comments made me laugh out loud, some made me sigh, many made me nod knowingly.  So many amazing women and so many amazing stories. I found myself wanting to call you up and find out more about your mom.  And of course, I did email many of you because I couldn’t resist telling you how something you said stirred me or tickled me in some way.

 I challenge each of you to take the thoughts you expressed here about your mom and expand upon them.  Sit down and write an essay about your mom or mom-type person.  It will bless future generations to be able read about her of your own hand. Do it, please. Don’t delay.

The first thing I realized as I started reading the comments is how important a name is. Knowing the name of your mother helped me visualize her in the story you told about her and made me feel like I knew her personally.  Thank you for that.

Some of your moms liked their names, some didn’t, some changed their names or the spelling of their names or went by a nickname, some were named unwittingly by someone other than their parents. Some found out years later their name was not what they thought it was.  So many different names, yet all the same name - mom. 

I think we’ll do this little exercise again in June for our daddios or dad-type personages in our lives. I’ll be casting about for another fabulous prize.

The only downside to this is that there is only one winner and I really hate that.  I want everyone to win.  If I were Oprah, you would look under your seat right now and find a Flip video.  But knowing the super nice people that you are, I know you all join me in congratulating Gale whose mama Linda was a charter member of the Monkees fan club.  I like you Gale, even though your mom and I are about the same age.  Congrats Gale and be on the lookout for an email from me!

Have a loverly weekend y’all and thanks for playing along.

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The prevailing assumption in our culture is that parents can’t wait for their children to grow up and leave home. And yes, there have been a few days when I would have traded Sean for a margarita and a plate of nachos. But not many. At least not too many.

Maybe most people do feel that way, but I don’t. Maybe because I waited so long and so late in life for him and maybe because I thought I’d never be a mother, but I am not anxious for this time to speed by. I am fully aware that the day he leaves my house will be here too soon.

I remember one time when Sean was about a year old, we were seated in a restaurant booth and he was enjoying the thrill of wearing a napkin on his head as everyone does. He was having a good time and we were having a good time watching him have a good time. At one point, the lady seated in the booth behind us turned and said, “Don’t worry, only 18 more years to freedom.” Without thinking I blurted, “But I don’t want to be free from him!” Her face contorted in disgust and disbelief, as though I had just stated for the record that I enjoy sticking straight pins in my eyeballs. That was kind of a conversation killer, so she immediately turned back to her margarita and nachos.

But it’s true, I’m having a great time being a mom even though I’m chronically tired and most of the time I feel like I don’t know what in the heck I’m doing. I mean how often can you take someone to dinner and get them to dance on the table with a napkin on their head purely for your own amusement without buying them drinks? Not that often people. Not since college anyway.

Sean is a source of joy in my life. I like having him around. He makes me laugh. He makes me remember to breathe long and deep. With or without a napkin on his head.

Somewhere along the way, in the bumpy course of my life, my eyes had become crusted over with the cynical smog and gunk and goo of the world. Bad news for an artist. I had just stopped seeing the exquisite surprises that God puts in my path every day. And I didn’t even realize it. Until Sean came along.

Having a little boy to point out the spot of bright red in a sepia colored world has been a marvelous and soul-healing thing. Sean has opened the eyes of my heart to see the wonder of the world again through his eyes and this, for me, has been the gift of parenthood.

Not too long ago, we had breakfast at IHOP and if ever there is a place where the world gathers up her cynicism, it’s at IHOP. We always seem to get some world worn waitress named Blanche who is all business but calls everyone honey. Blanche is probably 53 but looks 73 from smoking three packs a day and having worked at IHOP since she was 16.

As Blanche sets down the plate of pancakes before us, Sean shrieks with delight, “Oh Mommy! A strawberry!” he gasps. “Look! She brought us a strawberry!” And then he looks up at Blanche and gives her a smile that would light up the dark side of the moon.

 But Blanche doesn’t take notice. “Anything else honey?” she asks instead. Sean claps his hands together with glee and laughs his own funny little staccato laugh over the sight of such a rare and unusal thing. He picks it off the side of the plate and examines it.

Powdered sugar snows down on everything between the plate and his shirt. He holds it to his button nose and inhales deeply leaving a dusting of white behind. He feels of its bumpy texture. He offers me a sniff by shoving it firmly up my nose. Then he looks at me and smiles. A strawberry! Tiny white teeth and dimples punctuate the moment — those dimples that daily prick the tender underside of my crusty, cynical heart. It is so hard to be crusty and cynical when there are dimples.

I look at him as he licks what’s left of the the powdered sugar off the strawberry. I think of his happy little heart, still pure and unstained by the world, a world which cannot, will not, be distracted away from it’s cynicism long enough to appreciate the beauty of a single strawberry on a plate of pancakes.

In that moment, the strawberry and the boy are so blindingly and shockingly and painfully beautiful that it makes my eyes hurt. And I want to eat them both up.

This boy, he has opened the eyes of my heart.