Scout proudly sauntered into the bedroom this morning carting a tray laden with all manner of breakfasty goodness. He said, "this was made with EXTRA love, Mommy!" I nibbled and said, "Yes, I can taste it!" So now I know. Love tastes like butter.
I didn't know what it tasted like, but I've seen it all week.
In Scout's pride and honour:
In Chase's comfort:
(Who knew a blankie could also serve as a loin cloth in a pinch?)
slave labour service:
In brotherly bonding:
Even in Heavenly Father's smallest creations:
And maybe sometimes love tastes more like ice cream than butter. Especially if it's the first ice cream cone eaten in one's lifetime:
So even though I've been dreading Mothers' Day for many reasons . . . I couldn't doubt the love in my home. And my family pulled through. They bestowed me with a few treasures:
(All I can see is "Island Getaway" and I eagerly await the tickets.)
They cooked for me, they cleaned for me. They worked as hard as possible to get along with each other and not get any blood on the carpet.
And when Mr. Mister attempted to wake me for church, he accepted without judgment or argument that I simply did NOT wish to go, and that was that. Not today. Not on Mothers' Day. Not on the annual guilt-laden religious reminder that I never had an ideal mother and will never be one. And not when I am wracked with sadness and concern for my sister's children, who are experiencing their very first mother-less Mothers' Day today. I know how that is and it's horrid.
And so I was able to sleep luxurious sleep, and forget for that much longer that it is Mothers' Day at all.
THAT, my friends, is love.