Another Mothers Day is nearing. Another Mothers Day without my son. It was 12 years ago, when I last saw him, listened to him laugh, hugged him, and heard his beautiful, baritone voice say, "I love you, Mom." Kelly still is my first thought when I awaken, and my last thought as I fall asleep. Time does have a way of softening the grief, but I would gladly give my life to spend one more day with him.

To All Mothers . . .

This is for all Mothers who have fallen asleep in Church after being kept awake all night by a colicky baby.
This for all Mothers who have experienced the scorn of other shoppers by a screaming child.
This is for all Mothers who have had to count to 10 in order not to swat that screaming child.
This is for all Mothers who have walked the floor all night with a sick child and went to work the next day with no sleep and baby burp on their jacket.
This is for all Mothers who have sat in a steamy bathroom with an asthmatic child, hoping the hot water wouldn't run out before the child’s breathing became less labored.
This for all Mothers who have kissed booboo's and made them better with a super hero Band-Aid.
This is for all Mothers who were served breakfast in bed, and ate the fried eggs that were burned on the outside and raw inside and drank the lukewarm coffee made with yesterdays coffee grounds.
This is for all Mothers who have stayed up at night waiting for their teenage child to come home, praying they are only late, not in an accident or worse.
This is for all Mothers who have withstood the growing pains of teenage angst.
This is for all Mothers who have lost a child.
This is for all Mothers who have lost a child at birth.
This is for all Mothers who have lost a child to a drug related death.
This is for all Mothers who long for their departed children.
This is for Mothers who wish they could relive those years.

IF . . .

If I had my child to raise over again,
I’d finger paint more
and point my finger less.
I’d take my eyes off my watch,
and watch with my eyes.
I’d take more hikes and fly more kites.
I’d stop playing serious, and seriously play.
I’d do more hugging and less tugging.
I’d be firm less often, and affirm much more. .
If I had my child to raise over again,
I’d teach less about the love of power
and more about the power of love.

Author unknown