Happy Mother’s Day

I want to wish my Mom, Carol Gallagher a Happy Mother's Day. I just got off the phone with her and we laughed and talked about how fast the time has gone. Not just for me growing up, but how fast my children, her grandchildren are growing up.

I thought about this story that Brett had given to his Mom, Diana McCrummen when he was close to our son Tristons age. Every time I read this I smile.

Though I never got to meet Diana, I know how much she loved her son, who would grow up to become my husband and the father of my two children Triston and Bailey.

Thank you to my mom and to Brett's mom for making our two children possible in our lives.

Also Happy Mother's Day to my Mother In-law Bobbie Jean McCrummen, though she passed a few years ago, I think of her always. Love to all of you Moms!

                                                        Wet Oatmeal Kisses
The baby is teething. The children are fighting. Your husband just called and said, “Eat dinner without me.”

One of these days you’ll explode and shout to the kids, “Why don’t you grow up and act your age?” And they will.

Or, “You guys get outside and find yourselves something to do. And don’t slam the door!” And they don’t.

You’ll straighten their bedrooms all neat and tidy, toys displayed on the shelf, hangers in the closet, animals caged. You’ll yell, “Now I want it to stay this way!” And it will.

You will prepare a perfect dinner with a salad that hasn’t had all the olives picked out and a cake with no finger traces in the icing and you’ll say, “Now THIS is a meal for company.” And you will eat it alone.

You’ll yell, “I want complete privacy on the phone. No screaming. Do you Hear me?" And no will answer.

No more plastic tablecloths stained with spaghetti, no more dandelion bouquets, no more iron-on patches, wet, knotted shoestrings, muddy boots or rubber bands for ponytails.

Imagine, a lipstick with a point, no baby-sitter for New Year's Eve, washing clothes only once a week. No PTA meetings or silly school plays where your child is a Tree. No carpools, blaring stereos or forgotten lunch money.

No Christmas presents made of library paste and toothpicks. No more wet oatmeal kisses.

No more tooth fairy,no more giggles in the dark, or scraped knees to heal or sticky fingers to clean.

Only a voice crying, “Why don’t you grow up?” and the silence echoing,

“I did”