The first time that little Micah, man of Munchkinling, came up to me with his sweet face turned up, tears in his eyes, his lips turned out and down in a tremulous pout and thrust his finger at me, saying, “hurt! kiss!” I couldn’t believe it.
I remember my eyes widening and looking at him in amazement. I was about to ask him if he was for real? I mean, you really want me to kiss it? Like that is going to make it better?! (everyone knows only tylenol makes anything better!)
But I stopped myself because it was clear: yes, he was for real. And yes, my kiss would make it better.
And it did and it does.
Moxie reminded me of that moment again yesterday. She was trying to climb a wall to get something (- something she probably shouldn’t have been trying to get) and bam! she hit her head and came right over to me, sobbing her little adorable heart out, pointing to her head, WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH and wanted me to kiss it.
I kissed it.
She angled me to the right spot.
I kissed it.
Instantly, her tears dried, she said ‘yeah’ and spun on her heel, away from me, off to do something else (- something that she probably shouldn’t be doing)
I get confused by this still, incredulous over this power that my love has with my children, the healing and the safety that they apparently find with me. It kind of makes me feel like crying.
Mack’s body shakes with joy when he sees me – he’s like this little laser beam, honing around for it’s source for light and when he sees me – me?! – you can tell I’m it for him – he just lights up and he’s in total ecstasy (and woe to the world if I don’t pick him up that instant).
I think it’s easy to forget who we are to our children. Between our insecurities, what the world has taught us already, between glossy talk about perfection and what being a mother is all about and what we can give to our kids, blah, blah, it’s so very easy to forget that we are their world.
It’s really that simple.
Whatever we think of ourselves doesn’t matter; we are their world.
Our kisses make things right; our love makes them grow. The light that we look at them with is juice for their soul.
We have slipped into this role that is deeper, bigger and more profound than anything we’ve ever done or experienced in our lives and it’s easy to blink and not even see it, not even realize it’s happening in this very moment.
That we are their world.
I want to have that tattooed on my arm, to see it always and never forget. When I get pissed off, depressed; when I say or do things I *know* I shouldn’t. When I believe in the bullshit that I’ve been fed along the line regarding my worthlessness or my lack. Lack of whatever, you know: I’m not smart enough, savvy, creative, pretty, skinny, talented, whatever – oh, and I’m deaf with an injured brain to boot! – so when my lack catches up with me, I want to raise that hand up with the tattoo on it to remember:
I am their world.
The power of “mom” is to be the centre of a child’s world. The sun in their system.
There is no lack; there is only love.
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