February 13, 2019 2 min read

I realize that one day I won't be the most important woman to my sons. The very thought breaks my heart just a little. My job is to raise these soon-to-be men into husbands who will respect women and love themselves. The person I am everyday of their lives imprints upon them the type of woman each of them will respond to, whether in a good way or a bad way. 

In the frantic day-to-day bluster of life I do my best to hold them close to my heart. I forget sometimes to be gentle with my tone and patient with their needs. My three boys are each unique, so different from one another, so different from my husband and me and each requires a different type of understanding from me. I'm not always up to the task but my best is all I can give. 

If only the depth of my love was enough to make up for all of my shortcomings. 

On this day so focused on romance and love, my heart is filled with the days of sweet smelling infants and toddler kisses. I recall a poem from an obscure poet, Lois Jorgensen, who embodies motherhood that reminds me of those little guys.

Heart Prints
Little chubby, grubby hands,
Complete with dirty fingernails,
Leaving prints upon my walls,
Upon the stairs, upon the rails.
Little wet muddy, sneakered feet.
Making prints across my floor.
Blazing a trail for all to see,
From water tap to cookie jar.
Dirty clothes under chair and bed.
Dirt on cuffs will not come clean.
One missing sock will never be found.
Brand new slacks with knees of green.
Dirty dishes, pots and pans.
Sticky goop on spoon and bowl.
Cornflakes crunching under foot.
Cupboard empty . . . dishpan full.
A blue eyed, impish grin walks by,
Covered with dirt from head to toe
I'll have to plunge it in the tub,
To tell if it is friend or foe,
Dirty dishes, hands and shirt,
Each day I wage my war on dirt.
But you wait . . .  old dirt, it won't be long,
Before those sneakered feet are gone.
I'll beat you yet . . . you dirty fein,
When grubby hands are grown and clean.
Then . . . 
Lonely signs for days now gone.
Then . . . silent tears when babes depart.
Little chubby, grubby hands,
Leave your prints upon my heart.

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