The heartfelt chaos of Mother’s Day: celebrating love in every moment
My babies
Image: Dad
Mother’s Day in our house started long before the actual Sunday arrived. In fact, if you asked my seven-year-old, Mother’s Day had apparently been happening every second day for about two weeks prior.
And now, almost two weeks later, I still smile thinking about it.
Every afternoon leading up to Mother’s Day, without fail, I would hear the familiar little voice calling: “Mommy, close your eyes!”
Now, as a mother, you learn very quickly that “close your eyes” can either lead to something adorable or something that requires deep cleaning afterwards. Thankfully, this time it was always adorable.
I would stand there obediently, eyes squeezed shut, hands stretched out in front of me like I was participating in some strange family ritual, waiting for the next masterpiece to be placed into my palms.
Another card. Another drawing. Another folded-up piece of paper with giant wobbly handwriting declaring how much he loved me.
Sometimes there were hearts. Sometimes there were stick figures. Once there was what I think was meant to be me, although it looked suspiciously like a potato with hair. But honestly? Every single one felt like gold.
And every single time, he waited for my reaction like it was the first card he had ever given me.
That’s the thing about children. Their love is repetitive in the most beautiful way. They don’t care if they already hugged you five minutes ago. They’ll come back for another one. They don’t think saying “I love you” once is enough. They say it again. And again. And again.
At seven years old, my boy already has the kind of compassion that catches me completely off guard sometimes. The kind that reminds me that while the world can feel loud and chaotic and exhausting, there is still softness in it.
When Mother’s Day finally arrived almost two weeks ago, it wasn’t exactly the lie-in-and-breakfast-in-bed fantasy social media likes to sell us. Nope.
Reality looked more like me standing in the kitchen with flour on my hands, music playing in the background, making rotis because I wanted rotis and, well, my husband may be many wonderful things, but a roti maker is not one of them.
Now don’t get me wrong. My husband absolutely held his own. Like every Sunday, he took over the meat and chicken duties outside. The man is the undisputed master marinader of this household. If seasoning meat was an Olympic sport, he’d probably bring home gold for South Africa.
So there we were: him outside at the fire, me inside kneading dough and rolling rotis while trying not to turn the kitchen into a flour explosion.
And yes, for a tiny moment, I had a little internal sulk.You know the one.
That quiet “it’s Mother’s Day and I’m still cooking” feeling. Then suddenly, tiny arms wrapped around me from behind. One hug.
Then another smaller hug from baby brother.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy.” And just like that, perspective came rushing back in.
Because maybe right now Mother’s Day doesn’t look like uninterrupted naps, spa vouchers and breakfast trays balanced perfectly in bed. Maybe this season of motherhood still looks like sticky hands, noise, cooking and constant interruptions.
But their way of celebrating me is through love. Loudly. Constantly. Freely. It’s in the handmade cards every second day leading up to Mother’s Day. It’s in the surprise hugs while I’m elbow-deep in flour.
It’s in the way my boys look at me like I’m their safe place. And honestly, I think that’s better than any fancy Mother’s Day plan anyway.
One day, maybe I’ll get the peaceful morning and the sleep-in and all that jazz. But for now, I get this version instead. And I know one day I’ll miss it desperately.
So now, almost two weeks later, I still find myself thinking about that kitchen filled with music, rotis, hugs and love so pure it almost hurt. And I still feel incredibly blessed to be the mother of my two boys.