I just drove by the 4th Street house where I raised my girls for the first 14 years of their life. I heard it call, 'Mo-ooooooom'. As I looked up its hill, the century old, vacant home came alive again.
I saw my children, my precious daughter's, running through the rooms, giggling, and playing with blocks and dolls on the floor. They were swinging on the playground, riding trikes and eating turtle salad while chatting around the round kitchen table. In that home, BreAunna came into our family, her two year old sissy mothering her with me.
I saw me dancing with them in the livingroom, twirling around. There we were singing songs with cassette tapes and cuddled in reading a book.
In every room and outside I see their friends laughing, cousins and adults teasing, playing, and conversions pass by. Oh, yes, the deck where Imri stinkers as she picks up her crying sister Bre, who wasn't yet walking. Imri giggles. So do I. Eleven years later I belly laugh on that deck watching a requested food-fight birthday party.
The sleepovers, parties, dress up box, holiday family feasts, pillow fights with blacks eyes, loosing teeth, a guardian angel sighting, stiches, and skinned knees, are all crammed into that space. The tears and turmoils and young childhood life, it all was witnessed by those walls and the eyes of my heart.
The days were active with ballet, tap, school and fun. I feel them beside me as we lie in Imri's waterbed reading a favorite book again, night after night, and Bible stories they ask not to end. I see their sweet faces as I stroke their blonde hair as we pray for those we love to be blessed and safe.
Their tiny hands in mine, their chubby arms around my neck, my leg (I called BreAunna my little Klingon), holding tight. I miss that. I begged them to stay little, to not grow up and leave me. Imri cried the day before turning four at the thought of such a thing happening. "I don't wanna grow up and leave you, Mommy." As I comforted her, I wanted to cry knowing that all too soon she would soon welcome that day.
I'm thankful for the privilege of being their mom. I gave it, I gave them my all. I almost didn't have the chance. Fear and physical impairments held it off. I've regrets of over-parenting yet comforted with Christ's forgiveness as He covers it ALL.
Now my girls are women, one a mother with demands much more than I. May they take the good I gave them, heal and grow stronger and sensitive from the hurt they had. Go in Christ and flourish. I'm proud to always and forever love you, special daughters. I'm proud to be your Mom, on Mother's Day and beyond.
Imri Grace and BreAunna Joy.