Yesterday, as I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall and watching my husband shave, my eighteen-month-old daughter ran over to me, threw her arms around my neck, and said, "My mama!" An answering yell and the sound of feet running on a hardwood floor followed, and my three-year-old son appeared, pushed his sister out of the way, hugged me, and exclaimed, "No. My mama!" They proceeded to "fight" over me like that for quite a while, and their little squabble reminded me of growing up with my sister and how we would always scream "my commercial" anytime an ad appeared on television during Saturday morning cartoons. The object is different, of course, but the passionate cry is the same: She's (or It's) mine!
I love how much my kids love me right now. I'm their world, and they trust me and depend on me to take care of them. I don't feel at all deserving of their love most days; sometimes I'll think, "Oh, you poor kids, having to grow up with a mother like me." But they love me, in spite of the times when I'm crabby and yell about insignificant things. They love me even though I make them do things they don't always like, such as eating their vegetables and going to bed on time. They love me the same as I love them, unconditionally, in spite of my many failures. They're my children! And they're everything to me.