Tanks for the Memories

“How long has this been there?”

Eric looked quizzically at me in response and then his eyes zeroed in on the whitish ring adorning the left side of my pewter blue jacket, the one I always feel very stylish and trendy when I wear. He said all he knew for sure was that it wasn’t there before we’d left for church that morning—at least for a few minutes I was child debris free, but beyond that he couldn’t be sure.

I probably wore my “child target” proudly through much of church like I’d been awarded Motherhood’s highest badge of honor. Admirers would say, “Oh look she’s got, the crusty napkin badge!” Maybe I should look at this smudge as my practical Mother’s Day corsage: no muss, no fuss, no need to worry about flowers irritating my allergies, little fingers pulling the baby’s breath out of carefully made arrangements, and no chance of anyone being accidentally pin stabbed.

I recently saw a cartoon depicting a mom, of three children no less, applying make-up, clean clothes, and jewelry only to be met in the next panel by her dirt encrusted son. He was grinning from ear to ear offering her both a hug and a wilty flower. In the last frame, you see her children marveling at their mother’s super hero like leap. That’s our mom: able to leap tall buildings and small children in a single bound. She made it to the minivan in one leap. I guess I need to read more comics to get tips for staying stain /slobber free. Then again, maybe remaining smudge free is such a pipe dream it could only happen in the funny papers.

This mother’s day I was showered with hugs, kisses, cards, my favorite breakfast and an “I love you tank” because nothing really says you’re the best mom in the world like a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. Through the years I’ve received many dear homemade notes, pictures, macaroni jewelry, and cards from my children. Because I have two boys, quite a few of these forget-me-nots are decorated with skulls and cross bones, Star Wars guys, bombs, knights in armor holding morning stars, and of course tanks.

As Ethan and Gerrit went to the front of the congregation on Mother’s Day to sing, my heart clenched just a little because I realized this will be the last time Ethan will troop up to the stand to dutifully sing, “Mother, I love you Mother, I dooo-woo…”. He’ll be twelve in the fall and therefore exempt from primary singing. How did this happen? Wasn’t it just him marking my shoulders and pinching my elbows for comfort? Eric and I used to have to bribe Gerrit with a whole bag of candy to get him to go up front and sing—it terrified him—and next year he’ll be taking Afton’s hand and leading her up front, jockeying for a spot so we can see her chubby cheeks.

I love being a mom, stains and all, and I guess it’s OK if my children grow up and stop singing primary songs as long as they don’t ever stop saying I love you with tanks.