I'm the kind of person who skips to the conversation when reading a book.
“Hey, Mom, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Grace asked me the other day while we were driving in the car.
Hannah giggled in the back seat. “Mom’s already grown up,” she said.
But Grace persisted, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” I answered, but my mind starting running through the list of things I have wanted to be when I grow up.
“I think,” I told Grace, but I should have said it with more confidence, “I want to be a mom.”
“You are a mom!” they said in unison.
Let me say that I love being a mom.
I love hugging my kids — and my friends will tell you that I’m not a huggy person.
I love listening to their chatter about their lives.
I love helping them with math problems.
I love helping them with life problems.
I love saying things like, “Eat your broccoli.”
I love smoothing damp hair off feverish foreheads.
I love saying, “There, there. Everything will be alright.”
When I was in high school, I don’t think mom was one of the options when the guidance counselor helped me plan my career. I don’t think it was listed in any of their big books of careers paths and colleges. I don’t think it was on their projection charts of what jobs were going to be needed.
I went to college and got a degree in Psychology. I got married. Then, I became a mom, eight times over.
I don’t earn a penny for the work I do here at home, but I know that I am one of the richest people in the whole world. Forbes magazine can’t measure what I have.
T. S. Eliot said, “I don’t believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.” Mothers are too busy to stagnate.
When I grow up, I want to be a mother.