On the morning of my first Mother’s Day, the nurse on duty brought me a little plate of petit fours along with the breakfast tray from the cafeteria. I remember 3 tiny cakes, one for each baby; 2 with a blue bow on top and one with a pink rose. And I remember pushing my pancake around in the syrup with a feeling of dread hovering in my heart, knowing that the hours ahead would be melding from sweet to bittersweet to bitter.
weighing just over a total of nine pounds. They had come via c-section and so I had been recuperating on the maternity floor, a short wheelchair push down the hall from the NICU where they were learning to suck a binky and hold their body heat and remember to breathe. For five days, while attempting to walk on bread-loaf feet and figuring out what to do with the thrice pouchy folds of deflated pregnancy skin that enveloped my midsection, I had made countless trips to see them in their isolettes and had quickly learned the routine of visiting the special care nursery.
This Mother’s Day, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fussed over with some semblance of breakfast in bed, perhaps a potted petunia or marigold and hopefully a full day of mostly-behaved children. And in return, I’ll fuss over them and hold them close and tell them exaggerated stories of how empty and dull life was before they arrived. We’ll laugh and tease and I’ll remember again how exceedingly blessed I am. But truly, the moments when my heart swells fullest will come late at night as I’m pulling the covers up straight and resting my hand on their slumbered heads, just as I’ve done since the day they were born, spilling an alabaster jar of praise at the feet of my Father whose love I can never plumb.
See what great love the Father has lavished on us,
that we should be called children of God!
1 John 3:1