Motherhood: Devil in Details.

A few mornings in the past couple of months have had me up early sewing thick star patches on my tiny son's Tae Kwon Do uniform.  They are hard to sew on.  Ironing them on is not an option.  I only get around to sewing them on less occasions than I'd like to; the occasions during which I reduce the small pile of stars collected in a plastic plate.  Mostly, even when I am a tad late or a tad rushed, I take good care of my Mom business.  My son is well-fed (lots of vegetables), he is clean, he is loved, he is learning a lot.  He seems fairly emotionally balanced and happy especially given the upheaval of the past year.  I take him lots of places.

A perfect Mom I am not by any stretch.  I work full-time.  I come home exhausted after battling daily apocalyptic traffic.  A procrastinating grunt, I rush and yell sometimes in order to get my son out the door and to school in the mornings.  I am impatient.  I expect a lot.

But often I can be good.  A decent, affectionate, attentive, present mother.

I sew his stars on.  Not always timely.  His ardent participation in the discipline itself takes priority over the sewing of the stars.  He is at Tae Kwon Do, as required, twice a week.

Sewing on his stars at 6 am in the morning makes me feel like a Mom.

I have this vivid memory of this one heart-rendering moment, among others, when I viscerally felt I embodied Mother.  Last Spring.  I stood on the sidelines of a soccer field watching my son and his pint-sized team mates scrabble, fumble, kick and whine over a jostling soccer ball.  I remember seeing my son look up and scan the sidelines looking for his person.  All the kids had a person there, a person who was intently watching their clumsy beginner athlete moves, a person who was connected to them, a person they knew and trusted, a person who would jump and scream and call their name and clap and send waves of positive energy out into the field to touch upon the heart of the mini zealot chasing the ball.

Amidst all the chaos unfolding on the field, my son stopped, looked over at the sidelines.  His eyes scanned until they found me.  And he smiled!   I think I saw his puffed chest relax a bit.  Once he found me, he sprang into action again and rejoined the organized mess of small feet whacking at an escaping ball.

I felt so proud to be there for him.  Moved to tears that I was his.