Dear God,
It's my DS's 11th birthday. Time flies so fast really. Not too long ago he was just a baby, and then a toddler who loved to tag along with me, like my little shadow, everywhere I go in the house. Today he is all grown up, and prefers to sit in front of the computer screen.
I have become the (inevitable) Invisible Mom to my 11 year old. Often times I feel sad seeing my boy grow up, and having to form a world of his own. More and more I am less needed and asked help from. I wish I could be the perfect Mom --- the Proverbs 31 woman to him. I miss the younger years he spent with me in my arms all day, when our world was filled with just stories to tell, laughter, and tickles everywhere. It seems as though every moment is not enough to fill the days with love and togetherness.
I remember 22 grueling hours in the labor room to wait for his coming. Times have changed so much now, and I feel so alone. I miss my little DS so much because he's a grown boy now...
I read this poem from Alice Gray's compiled "Stories for a Mom's Heart", and it just like speaks about some lost time and lots of moments I want to bring back ---
My hands were busy through the day;
I didn't have much time to play
The little games you asked me to---
I didn't have much time for you.
I'd wash your clothes; I'd sew and cook;
But when you'd bring your picture book
And ask me please to share your fun,
I'd say: "A little later, son."
I'd tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,
Then tip-toe softly to the door...
I wish I'd stayed a minute more.
For life is short, and years rush past...
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away;
There are no children's games to play.
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear---
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands once busy, now are still,
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I might go back and do
The little things you asked me to.
that one ever sees beneath the stars
is the sight of worthy motherhood.
George W. Truett
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