When my kiddos asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day I provided the obligatory “Nothing at all.  Just you.” Next year, I think I will  be more specific. This is the result of my open-endedness:

As the hubby is the sole bassist for the worship team, Sundays are not tailored to the cherished Mother’s Day tradition of sleeping in. So by 7 AM, my 3 little alarm clocks alarmed into my room complete with bed bounces and dog piles to ensure my participation in their manic morning festivities, and presented me with hand crafted love wrapped in tissue. My husband sat in the shadows with an apologetic coffee and quickly shuffled off to his last minute shower. Too consumed by their contagious joy and audible excitement, and too confused by the jungle of tissue paper now clouding my vision to grumble at my own exhaustion, I was still processing my present when the screams began. “GET IT! GET IT!” As my tiny little terrors collided in desperate flee from fear, trying to escape, well I wasn’t quite sure what, I tried to calm the chaos, while simultaneously rubbing the sleep from my eyes. And then I heard it, “PINCHER BUGS!” And then I SAW them…PINCHER BUGS! Realizing I was pegged down for an insect invasion by my panicked little people, I did what any mother would do…I tossed the children into the air, began smashing their little love gifts, and joined in the screaming. My husband laughed from the shower. In all I captured six slithery stowaways crawling across my bed, apparently hidden among the bushes of flowers my children had stuffed into a makeshift gift bag for my enjoyment.

Later, as my sweet spouse left me with the 3 screaming little beasts still chanting spells of insanity upon me, he left me with one final gift, “How do you suppose so many of those bugs got in there anyways? They must have laid eggs in your presents or something.” And with that, my Mother’s Day morning was complete with the psychological gift of incessant hallucinations of insects on my every inch and an inability to ever sleep again. The gift that keeps on giving.

Mia Joy. It means “My Joy.” At the time we bequeathed her name, we were still novice, starry eyed parents with the false notion that we could somehow guide her destiny in this world. Mirrored after the traditions in scripture of triumphant characters being driven by their title, like Jacob, the “heal snatcher”, as if the Lord himself named them retroactively, I was certain “My Joy” would fulfill the duties of her name. Well, she has. Unfortunately, I didn’t factor in her interpretation. You see, my intentions were selfish, “MY” Joy. Hers were equally so, interpreting “MY” as her own, “Mia’s Joy.” And anyone who meets her can see she is the embodiment of bliss (and relentless devotion to fun and amphetamine levels of energy and the definition of exhausting). But recently, I have wondered if an even more appropriate name might have been “My Humility”, (although it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it). You see, she is by far the biggest champion of grounding my ego, through her constant reminders that I am not in control, and allows me to be grateful to step down from that expectation. This truth was illustrated yet again in the following encounter with my tiny master of modesty. Earlier this week, I was immersed in mommy recess with some fellow inmates in the institution of insanity known as homeschooling, while our little learners escaped to their real classroom, the playground. In a rare incident of pride, a distinct contrast to my expertise in self-loathing, I was boasting about our big plans for our newest learning adventure. “This morning we studied the lives and work of Matisse and Picasso and created divided self-portraits of the dueling masters and…” I was uncharacteristically silent for a moment, as I set aside my pride to notice a look of shock spreading across my audience. Of course, I assumed it must be a sign of their appreciation of our depth of learning, impressed with our cultural focus, disbelief at my budding geniuses potential. But as their looks of surprise evolved into concern, and then eventually disgust, my silence was interrupted by a familiar, “Look Mama!” And as I turned around to see my mini master of humility with her shoes removed, sprawled across the filth of the floor, proudly sucking on her muddy toes, I remembered who was actually being schooled. And THAT is why my name should be “Queen of Good Intentions”, mother to the “Master of Humility”…my joy!