Home Is Where Your Mama Is

Yep...She's still Mama to me! Not Mother, Mom, Ma, etc. I'm Southern and proud to be. So, she's Mama even all these decades later. I love the sound of the name. The way it's soft sounds hits your ears. I love the feel of it as it leaves your lips, and I love the way your heart warms when you say it. I especially love that I have been a part of the ranks of Mama's for a couple decades now. There's no greater calling, I am certain.

My precious Mama's birthday is on Easter. This is totally appropriate for me. This is the day when I celebrate my love for the two most influential people in my life: Mama and Jesus! Both have loved me unconditionally and fiercely! I can rest completely in their arms and know that I am "home"!! I have many sweet memories of my Mama. She was raised by a single mom who was a Mountain Woman in every sense of the word (can't wait to blog about her). Mama survived cancer, overcame infertility (and survived twins...yep me and Troy), raised three grateful children, has been a daily example to me of what a devoted wife should be, and has become one of the most amazing grandmas and great grandmas that I know. She's the toughest most gentle woman I've ever had the privilege of knowing. I am honored to be a part of her.

Some of my most favorite memories of Mama revolve around afternoon walks together to look at nature. She was so articulate as we talked and walked. Her voice was so soothing. I loved how she would tell me stories as we walked. These stories tended to linger on until bedtime--all due to my incessant persisting. Now I know how tired she must have been, but I never felt anything but love back then. I am certain these experiences have shaped my love for nature, my love for the spoken word and my auditory learning style.

My favorite memories are of watching her on Sunday mornings. She smelled so good...like muffins, butter, soap, and perfume. I can still almost smell the sweet, clean, soundness of this aroma! I loved watching her as she finished studying and preparing to teach her Sunday school class. She always glowed as she studied God's Word. Throughout her Sunday morning ritual, her nails and hair were becoming perfect as she let both of them dry under her hair dryer! She applied her make-up so perfectly (only adding to her intoxicating aroma was the smell of ladies' compressed powder). She was beautiful, elegant, smart, feminine...and being observed by a very watchful eye! She never knew that I was taking it all in or how much these memories would impact me to this day...or how I would LOVE to go back and relive them once more!

I love you so much, Mama! Happy Birthday! I thank God every day that He left you with us for awhile longer. I thank you for teaching me how to love this God of yours and showing me how awesome He is, and I thank you for showing us what it means to be a Godly wife, mother and woman. You've set the bar high...and we love you for it!

Mother Poem

A mother looks back fondly on raising her child and she wants that child to know it was always a privilege to be a mom.

Thoughts Of You

© Paula Stone

Memories of another time still come
To me and fill my mind, with thoughts
Of you when you were young. I lie awake
‘Till the morning sun comes creeping
Through my window shade, as I dwell upon
Mistakes I've made. What I would give to
Go back in time and feel you’re little
Hand in mine. To cherish each fast and
Fleeting day. To hold you close and kiss
Away, each pain that life will have in
Store and try to give you so much more.
You are part and will always be, imbedded in the soul of me. While I'm
Here, I want to say, that I've loved you
Each and every day and when my time on
Earth is gone.
The privilege was mine to have been your Mom.

Source: Memories Of Being Your Mom, Thoughts Of You, Mother Poem http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/memories-of-being-your-mom-thoughts-of-you#ixzz2OvboEAwT 
www.FamilyFriendPoems.com 

Must LOVE Seahorses

Must LOVE Seahorses

I was musing tonight about how exciting it is to be a female. I truly believe there is no more beautiful creature than we who are fortunate enough to be created as the softer gender. I love the laughter and snickers of little girls having a sleepover and how its resounds through the house making even the walls smile! I love the way little girls skip through the park holding hands...always in the company of another of their kind. We even go to the powder room in twos!

Tonight I was reflecting on my own little girl. She is complicated, cultured, complex, coy, crass, charming,  and stupefyingly beautiful! I adore her with all my soul! I have truly never gazed into more breath-taking blue eyes. Nor have I ever seen a pair of blues that can rage like a stormy sea in a moment's notice. She is fire and ice. She is strong and gentle. I love the paradox of Meleah. She is such a contradiction. I guess that is what it means to be female, after all. There are many things I don't know about this complicated gender status, but what I do know is that there is no greater joy than being blessed to be a woman who gets to experience each stage as her daughter blossoms into one!

I read a poem tonight that inspired me to the core. It was my Meleah spilled out in words on a page. I had to change a word or two (sorry Bailey) so that it would not offend. I do love this poem! Hope you will see a bit of you or another stunning and strong-willed lady between the lines!

Bailey B "specifically the seahorses"

how to make me fall in love with you 

(aka: Must Love Seahorses)

it's a lot harder than you think.

you have to be from the South, like me
or the North, like I want to be
or somewhere entirely more interesting than Dallas
and you have to have the ginger gene
(because there's no way I'm having
blonde children)
and you have to like aquariums
specifically the seahorses

don't wear too much cologne or
pastels and don't ever smell like
frat parties, barbecue, or beer
and DON'T ever say that ballet is stupid.

you have to ask before we choose
the restaurant because I don't eat Italian
or Thai or Greek or Subway
and you have to hold the door open for me
even if we're in my own room.

listen to my monologues for class
and rattled-off to-do lists
as you lazily push the basket
and I grab it from you because you're going too slow
and mockingly call you a princess

know that I am busy, VERY busy
in fact so busy that I may not see you
because I am an independent woman
and there are stories to be built, dragons to be slayed,
and there are things my hands must finish
before I can start on holding yours

make fun of my Crocs
and the way I hiccup out of nowhere
and the days that I don't have time to eat breakfast
so I bring a Fuzzy's cup to class
full of off-brand Cap'n Crunch
shoving handfuls into my mouth between
snide remarks about Morrison
while you laugh inside your eyes
about what a cynic I pretend to be

hate me when I tell you
that I don't need a hug
and that I'd rather be dating Hemingway
or that I have rehearsal
painting cities, building histories

ignore my comments about you needing to shave
or on how I think I'd rather I'd never get married
and live the rest of my days writing stories
with organic vegetables and rainy days and
walks in the Carolinas

call me a jerk when I'm being one
(because I know I am about 97% of the time)
and tell me you would help me
if I would ever let you
whether it be Christmas lights or
physics lab or the gnawing pain
of lonely lonely lonely

let me read my books, propped up on
my pillows and nestled into a glaze
and let me have my expectations
of Rochesters and Darcys
even though I say I don't
and when I have to sew a blanket for class
and I say the stitching looks awful
tell me no, it doesn't
because I desperately want you
to know that my favorite color is lavender
and I love watermelon and stationery and
online shopping at 2 am
and I desperately want to know
your elementary school, your favorite song,
your middle name
even though I pretend I don't

and sometimes when I say I'm right
and you know that I know I'm wrong
just pick up your spirals and turn to leave,
then stop and say
"my favorite book is Gatsby, too."

and smile and call me crazy.

it's a lot easier than you think.

Link to Poem