I sift through the priceless artwork that you once created. The ones where your chubby, little, fingers grabbed for paper and you scribbled with love.

The crayons documenting your tiny, world view. It was you and me.

How I adore those pictures. The ones where I was perfect in your eyes.

I was allowed that luxury because you were so little and I looked so big and grand. I felt it too. In my heart hooked to yours.

I felt it when your cherubic, sweet, face pressed against mine.
I felt it when you lit up as I walked into your classroom.
I felt it when you ran towards me scared.

I felt like a good mommy.

The kind that does more right than wrong.

Then life got complicated. Marriage struggles came. You grew older. Your tiny, chubby, Renoir drawing, fingers are now long and lean. They no longer exercise themselves drawing pictures of you and me.

I am no longer perfect. For now, your eyes meet mine rather than gaze upward.

You have seen me cry. You have seen me yell. You have seen me struggle. You have seen me scared.

I look at the pictures of you and me and I want to be that mommy again. The untarnished one of your youth.

I hope that one day when your long, lean, fingers are laced with adulthood that you realize that perfection is overrated and love is underestimated.

What was really etched in those crayon masterpieces is love. And that it is still you and me.

Mom…..my

Danny and I, walking Hazel

I’m contributing pieces on Family Today and Medium. Follow me below and on Instagram for my quotes.

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