What if we spontaneously hugged every tired looking mama and then took her out for coffee? What if our name, “mama,” made us instant friends regardless of our differences?
What if we said yes to all of our children’s safe and attainable adventurous requests?
What if we took the long route only for the view?
What if we remembered to smile and laugh from the deepest place in our belly every time we started to loose our patience? What if it was that easy? Maybe it is that easy.
What if we answered all our children’s why’s with the upmost passion and never grew tired of their relentless pursuit for more?
What if we spent more time preparing our meals than eating them? What if we didn’t just make time for family dinners, but family dinners was what time was for?
What if our breastmilk tasted like warm cherry pie a la mode, and healed all sickness and disease?
What if we didn’t fear how we are perceived by others when our children meltdown in public?
What if gravity and age were something to praise and look forward to? What if heavy, milk filled breasts were our culture’s picture of beauty?
What if we stopped and smelled every last rose?
What if we stopped to let them pick every last dandelion weed?
What if we could bottle up the scent of that summer sun kissed hair, that sweaty almost sand like scent we smell every time we kiss their head beneath our chin?
What if we gave ourselves the same grace we so freely and beautifully give others?
What if we recorded the sound of their two-year-old voice to play again and again as wise old women, with silver hairs and sun loved skin?
What if we never allowed our inconsistencies to backtalk all our lovely, endearing qualities?
What if our children knew, really really knew, how much we loved them?
What if time stood still long enough to document the moments that feed us, without missing the moments that happen in the time it takes to digest them?
Erin DeLaney, The Village Journalist