That’s What Moms Do

I lay on the couch, one eye open and one shut. An ice cube wrapped inside a damp washcloth balanced on my eyebrow.

“I weally sorry, Momma,” he said.

His face was level with mine, his eye brows bent into a frown. He peered into my face and focused on my wound. He stood so close his breath blew little puffs on my cheeks. With grown-up baby-worry concern he examined me. A bright yellow and red plastic gun hung from his little fingers. The offending foam dart was clenched tight in his other pudgy fist.

I sensed his fear, felt his sorrow, and my sharp anger melted.

I reached to steady the cloth with one hand and stretched my other arm awkwardly around him, pulling him close to my prone side. His miniature warm body felt like heaven. I gave him a squeeze and a weak smile, dispelling his shadow and bringing sunshine back to his face.

“It’s OK,” I said.

Because that’s what moms do. We…

Read this Mother’s Day article by Sylvia Schroeder on Her View from Home