One day, when my hair is erratic, wiry and a gorgeous, dignified gray. When my hands are wrinkled and worn, and my shoes are those cushy, supportive, not extremely fashionable ones. When my arms are frail, and my steps a bit slower. When my voice is untroubled and tranquil like the gentle hush of the ocean at night. When my make up is a little crooked and my fingernails are manicured and polished in petunia pink. When I’m rested and reminiscing of the years that have passed.
I hope they remember the times they buried their wet cheeks in my long, brown locks, pressed in, and cried on my shoulders. When my hair frolicked and danced in the sun as I chased them in the backyard. The times at the beach when my hair was salty and sandy and quite crazy looking. Not the times I didn’t want to swim because washing my hair seemed like such an extended, extravagant event.
I hope they remember my hands patting their diapered bottoms to the beat of “Jesus loves me”. Or the times our fingers laced perfectly together while we sat and watched their favorite movie, again, for the fiftieth time. When I wiped their spit up faces, and caressed their plump baby cheeks. The times we stirred, pressed, and shaped purple spaghetti and teal meatballs with tie-dyed ice cream for dessert. The times we held hands and prayed as a family. Not the times I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed the never-ending dishes; ignoring their requests to play a game with them. Not the times I spent on my phone keeping up with social media. Or the times I spent in front of the computer screen editing pictures for my clients. Not the times I pulled them aside, to discipline them, thinking they started the fight; but really it wasn’t their fault.
I hope they remember my feet in sopping wet, muddied sneakers exploring and hiking on hot summer days; finding rocks, fossils, and pieces of metal treasures unknown. Running down boardwalks, piers, and sand dunes on our Fall Break vacations. Walking blissfully across Walnut Street Bridge with tall ice cream cones, chocolate cheeked, and sticky fingered. Or when we ran and pitter pattered in circles around our home, chasing each other with giggles and glee. Not the times Mommy was too tired to run and play catch, so I sat with a large cup of cream and coffee in the shade. Or the times I sat in the minivan while Daddy went to investigate the beauties of nature with three boys in tow, because I had cute shoes on not meant to be sloppy, tattered, and soiled as boys on adventures quite often become.
I hope they remember my arms scooping them up from the spiteful pavement after tripping. Holding them. Hugging them. Wrapping around them. Or when they yanked and pulled on me and needed to be picked up and toted around because their little legs just ran out of gas. Shoveling sand with excavators and creating castles surrounded with donut fields at the beach. Holding them in the pool because that was the safe place to be. Cuddling under the covers at night, then playing a game on the phone together, reading books, doing math, or sharing our hearts at bedtime. Not the times I wasn’t there to be the one to hug and comfort them. Not the times I only held them briefly when their hearts needed so much more because I was touched out for the day.
I hope they remember my prayers over them, their lives, their futures, their wives and children, their ambitions, their hearts; their entire beings. The stories I read with special voices and sounds. The lullabies and humming that shushed them to sleep. The advice about friendships, bullies, and love. The made up silly songs and tooting sounds I’d make just to hear their belly laugh again and again. When I screamed as we rode Expedition Everest for the first time together, five times in a row. Not the times that I yelled because I called them five times already. Or when my words were too harsh because I had a bad day, and they couldn’t understand what they did wrong. Or I raised my voice out of frustration on myself not on them. Or I couldn’t speak a word and didn’t pour into them because I myself felt so empty myself at the time.
I hope they remember my make up was on straight when it was on; but it wasn’t a necessity to go out with. That sometimes black mascara down the cheeks was perfect as long as we were having fun or crying. That my eyes would follow them wherever they would wander just a little too far. And I would watch them intently when they called “Mommy look!”. That my lips would give them one hundred kisses at bedtime as requested. Not the times I didn’t want to get wet or sweaty because I just put my makeup on. Or the times they had to wait “just a minute” so I could conceal those dark eyes and blemish spots.
I hope they remember the dirt under my fingernails digging with them. The scratching of backs as they laid in their beds. How I used my nails to pry all those teeny Legos apart. That I ran my fingers through their hair just to feel it getting thicker as they grew up. Not the times I was too tired to tickle toes and scratch backs at night.
I hope they are thankful that God gave them me; because I couldn’t be any more thankful that God gave them to me. My heart is full and my house is full; of rare and beautiful treasures. Thank you Lord for these good and perfect gifts!
I have three boys in my Earthly home – Hudson (7), Jonas (6), and Finley (3). And three children awaiting me in my Heavenly home – Orion, Belle, and Delainey.
Proverbs 24:3-4
By wisdom a house is built,
and through understanding it is established;
through knowledge its rooms are filled
with rare and beautiful treasures.
Wendella is a wife, mother, and professional photographer. She enjoys capturing special family moments, from hearts that flutter with love, to babies running down the hallway and everything in between. She currently resides with her family in Alabama.
