I spent my childhood dreaming of being a mother, dressing up my dolls and pretending they were all my children. As a young wife, I spent every month waiting to see if it would be the month we knew a baby was on its way, but month after month passed as other newlywed friends ecstatically announced expecting pregnancies. I finally gave in, knowing a baby was going to take longer than we expected and we turned an extra bedroom into a guest room, painting the walls, hanging the decor and fluffing the new bedspread that was neither pink nor blue. 

The very next month, two little blue lines appeared on the pregnancy test stick and that was the beginning of motherhood as I imagined it. The joys I’d expected were replaced with nausea and vomiting, my favorite foods turned my stomach and sent me running to the bathroom. My hormones surged and I cried in the grocery store aisle because someone else bought the last gallon of milk that I craved. 
  I dreamed of a curly-haired toddler girl, clad in overalls and a frilly tee shirt, bent over under a monster truck, handing a wrench to her daddy. Our sweet Savannah entered the world a few months later, her sweet little head adorned with curly red hair just like I dreamt and only a year later would she actually be “working” with her Daddy.

Soon after her followed Juliette, then Waylon, Grayson, and a set of towheaded blue-eyed twins. 
  Not much about motherhood has been what I expected, wiping up dirty bums and snotty noses, lying next to them on the couch nursing them back to health, cleaning up bumps and bruises, styling their hair after they attacked it with scissors or worse–gum, intervening with love to break up arguments, crying with them and loving them when their hearts have been broken.
  Plenty of joy filled moments have filled the years, with chubby toddler arms reaching around my neck for hugs and sticky lips pressed to my face for kisses, sweet breaths as they pressed against me snuggling up to hear a story, a flour-covered kitchen as they helped make cookies and muddy footprints trailing them through the house as they showed me their new mud trucks. 
  

I credit everything I learned about motherhood to my precious mom who poured her life into her children, showering us with love and affection. Nothing was too insignificant for her and she always listened to us. There’s no doubt–I could not be who I am today without her unconditional love, hugs, listening ear, advice, and the millions of ways she showed her love to us. 
  The special snacks on the first day of school when she pulled up a chair at the kitchen table to hear all about our day to the times she sat underneath the treehouse window while we performed a puppet show for her was her love in action. 
I’ll never spend another Mother’s Day on this earth with my mama but I’m thankful for her influence and legacy every day, but especially on this day set aside for moms.
 Happy Mother’s Day to every mama who reads this, from the ones who have raised children and grandchildren to the ones who have conceived a baby and then said goodbye to them too soon. Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms of toddlers who spend their days fixing endless amounts of food only to have it thrown back in a temper tantrum by a trying toddler and to the moms who spend sleepless nights consoling a teething baby. 

You are special. You are doing an incredible job raising your babies even on the hardest days when you don’t think you can get by. You’re amazing and I wish you the happiest, joy-filled Mother’s Day!
  And if you aren’t a mother yet, thank a mom you know who is investing her life into her children or into you because she matters too. 

Love you all! Happy Mother’s Day!

Amanda