Happy Mothers' Day

Last week my mother came to town to help us out during what was admittedly a stressful week. My mom watched our kiddos, helped with the laundry, and I even found one of Carolena's costumes was mended. She endured the sleepless nights that we have come to know as life. She ate leftovers with us and graciously took Carolena to school so that I could take a nap.

And then on Thursday she went to my sisters house 45 minutes across Houston where she did more of the same and watched as everyone in that household succumbed to a stomach bug on Friday morning.

That's when I called her, barely able to speak, and mumbled into the phone something like, "migraine. can't get out of bed. help." and she returned to my house.

Saturday morning she awoke to a small child sticking two fingers in her face and announcing, "I pooped." There was indeed poop. There was poop on her fingers, poop in her nighttime diaper, poop on her bedding. I am not sure if a monkey snuck into Carolena's room that night or not but there was even poop on the wall.

You can still see the tire marks my mom's jeep left as she took her full cup of coffee and sped away to the beach.

Lucky.

These are the events that led to Kelly and me on the phone last night talking about Sir Ernest Shackleton (because, duh, how can you ever not talk about him) and about how both of us realized this week that motherhood is never ending. My mom might not change our diapers anymore, but she still endures our sicknesses, our tears, and even our tantrums. Perhaps we should have reconsidered taking my mom to a college bar (Fitzwilly's) for mother's day one year.

Mom, next time you come to town I will serve you wine and cheese. We can find some time to watch chick flicks. We'll eat popcorn and escape to Goodwill. And I promise to not be the one to wake you up with poop on my fingers.

Well, at least not my own poop.