Yesterday was Mother’s Day!

Mother’s Day carries a quiet kind of beauty — the kind that lives in small moments people often forget to notice.

It’s the hand that fixed your collar before school.

The voice that answered the phone no matter the hour.

The exhaustion hidden behind a smile so someone else could feel safe.

The way a mother remembers tiny details about your life long after you’ve forgotten them yourself.

Not every mother is perfect, and not every family looks the same. But there is something deeply human about the people who nurture, protect, teach, and keep loving even when life becomes difficult.

Mother’s Day is beautiful because it honors a love that is usually given in ordinary moments: warm meals, repeated advice, sleepless nights, rides home, silent sacrifices, and unwavering presence.

A mother’s love often feels like the first place we ever belonged.

The Baby Bottle

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April 13, 2014, Happy Birthday Baby!

I saw this last Saturday at an antique store in Winter Garden, FL and was this close, from purchasing it.

I must confess, as a blogger, curiosity had the best of me. I thought of many reasons the little notes could perhaps, make the ultimate guide to writing beautiful love of parent to child stories, an interesting read but something stopped me at my tracks.

I picked up the jar twice. I turned it around, looked a at it and turned again. I tried to peek through the translucent glass but the notes were so carefully jammed in that not even the Pink Panther would be able to solve the case.
I dragged the jar with me all over the store as I browsed through it. I misplaced it a few times to picking it right back a few seconds later, to finally giving it up for good just as fast as I could sneeze off the dust.

It did not speak to me. I didn’t think it was right. Thought I was violating the person’s trust but one could easily argue, I was not since the jar was up For Sale.

How can parents “love for a child” be up for sale? If indeed the notes were intended for a four years old in 2014, basically two years ago, there must have been a big reason why the jar was discarded and it wasn’t my job to play detective. One could play the devils advocate and assume the notes were intended to be opened when the child was old enough to read but it was there alone, tucked in a corner.

If it was meant for me to have the jar, I would have been Told So. It would speak to me and it didn’t. I would quietly paid for it and walked away with a smile but I didn’t. So, without a tear in my eyes, I laid it back at exactly place where I found it, on the left corner of the second shelf of the bookcase on the last isle.

I could think of a few 100 reasons why I love you, can you?