Sometimes I miss my little children

Sometimes I miss my little children.
Just for reference (in case anyone reads this): I am a mother of three grown children, grandmother of 6.
I remember what it was like to have three small children always wanting your attention and feeling like you are never succeeding in giving enough to any of them. I remember that I just wanted to be alone, time to go to the bathroom or take a shower without someone trying to breakdown the door to find out where I am. I remember I just wanted to eat a meal without having to share my food or preparing a meal that wasn't met with eeuuh, yucks.
But I also remember the snuggles. I remember when my three year-old little boy would snuggle and put his hand just inside my shirt so he could touch my skin. Or his chubby little hands reaching up to mine. I remember little girls coming in to snuggle in bed with me in the morning or during naps. I remember when they didn't want to leave my side.
Now they are grown and I miss those chubby little hands.

Kids

Sometimes I miss my kids so much. They are all so far away it is hard. Loradona is the closest, but she is a good three hour drive (not something you can do in an evening).
Clifford and Jill are the farthest of course, but even with Jill in Atlanta right now, she might as well be in Japan for all the good it does me.
Jeanette is the same, I just miss them.
Clifford called today and you would think that would have helped. In a way it made it worse.
I miss them coming home and telling me all the good and bad stuff that went on at school.
I think it would be better if I think of the things I don't miss.
Okay, here are the things I DON'T miss:
* Driving to three soccer games on a Saturday.
* Waiting up until they got home at night.
* All the money that was needed for EVERYTHING.
* All the stuff dropped at the front door.
* Dirty dishes - lots of them.
I'm sure there are more. Okay, I'm feeling better.
Love to you all.

I came across this in some old emails and I thought it was good. No, I did not write it, but there are some things in it that I could have

Mothers

This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's okay honey, Mommy's here."
Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing crying babies who can't be comforted.

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections are hanging on their refrigerator doors.
And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal bleachers at football or soccer games instead of watching from the warmth of their cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me, Mom?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet and scream for ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who count to ten instead, but realize how child abuse happens.

This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the (grand) mothers who wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.

This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their children can eat. For all the mothers who read "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then read it again. "Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. A nd for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for every mother whose head turns automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home -- or even away at college.

This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the words to reach them.

This is for all the step-mothers who raised another woman's child or children, and gave their time, attention, and love... sometimes totally unappreciated!

For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green.

For all the mothers of the victims of recent school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting.

For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to be peaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war.

What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M. when you just want to hear their key in the door and know they are safe again in your home? Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?

The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our thoughts are for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation... And mature mothers learning to let go.

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers.
Mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you all.
For all of us.
Hang in there.
In the end we can only do the best we can.
Tell them every day that we love them.
And pray.
Love to you all.