Muddasday

When I was pregnant my Aunt Paula sent me a slew of books on parenting - particularly on being the parent to a girl. One book was Growing a Girl.

I have admittedly not yet read it (don't judge me, I keep it in my 'to-read' pile next to the bed. Right next to the Percy Jackson series that I am unabashedly reading).

The title, however, sticks in my head.

Growing a Girl.

That's what I do. Every day. I don't really accrue any time off. I haven't gotten a raise, or annual review, in almost three years.

But I get kisses.

And I'm told twenty-seven times a day Mama, I love you, too.

I put band aids on scraped knees and pin hair out of beautiful eyes.

I read the same books over and over, and go to story time, even when I don't want to.

I am a lap. I am hugging arms. I am an example and disciplinarian.

At times I am exhausted and overwhelmed and frustrated. Other times I am overjoyed and amused and hopeful.

Mostly I am tired.

Tired but content.

And today, I was told over and over Happy Muddasday, Mommy.

Mommy, I get you flowers. Yellow and purple and white. I help paint the kitchen. I bring you a flower pot Mommy.

Happy Muddasday Mom. I love you too.

It's not easy work, Growing a Girl, but it's the best damn job I've ever had.