May 16, 2016 3 min read

Mother’s Day was last weekend and, if you are a mother of any kind, I hope yours was blessed. This has become a bittersweet day for me in the three years since my mom passed away, as I both miss her and yet celebrate my own motherhood. It can be a challenging time.

This year, my oldest tossed a “Happy Mother’s Day” over her shoulder at me as she ran down the sidewalk to go spend the day at the zoo with friends. Not a great start to the day for me, but she’s at that age, you know.

Next, my husband had to deliver a load of hay to a customer that afternoon, and he took the two youngest as helpers. I spent much of my afternoon alone.

I will admit, I was feeling a little neglected. Not really any more so than on any other day of the year, but since mothers only get this one day, I had hoped for a tiny bit of fanfare. I mean, I’ll do the laundry and the dishes regardless, but it might be nice to get a pat on the back every so often. But, so it goes.

My oldest had called to say she would not be home for dinner, so I was quite surprised when she pulled up the driveway around 6 o’clock. She would only say that her plans had changed after she spoke with her dad. I knew he was bringing home a pizza for supper, but I couldn’t fathom that some hot, steaming pepperoni and melty cheese was enough to call her home. (It would probably work for me, but she is smarter than I am.)

When my husband and younger children pulled up the driveway, I knew something wasn’t normal. There were Cheshire Cat grins aplenty, and my son was carrying a box. I knew it wasn’t a gift for me by the looks on their faces, so, Lord, help me – what was in the box?

As it turned out, there were four baby critters in the box. Accidently rousted from their nest and subsequently abandoned by their mother, they needed some help. Like, bottle-feedings-several-times-a-day help. I informed the kids that if they wanted them, they had to be responsible for caring for them. That I was not taking on any bottle babies. And that, once we were sure they could survive, we would have to release them back to their natural environment. Everyone agreed, though my agreement was more like resigned acceptance of what I knew I could not change.

Since that time, these kids have gone out at all hours of the day and night to care for their adopted progeny. They have suffered from a lack of sleep, irritability, untold messes, being pooped and peed on, insatiable hunger, bickering, and then, when they were sure they couldn’t take it anymore, they accepted as payment for their troubles only some cuddles and coos. In short, they have been little mothers.

If they learned any of this tenacious persistence from me, I guess I’ve done OK as a mom. And if the sheep-covered pajamas I ended up receiving can be believed, they agree that I am OK. In fact, they think I am the “baaa-est.”

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.