#HonestTweet

If the following post were on twitter, it would not only be way above the character limit, but it would also be accompanied with the hashtag #HonestTweet.  And maybe #Sappy.  So bear with me.

My mom and I are close.  Always have been.  As a matter of fact, when I was 12 years old, I cried to my mother that I didn't want to turn 13 because I thought teenagers automatically started smarting off to their mothers, and I didn't want to do that.  I have grown up confident that my mother loves me and would do anything for me.
And yet, it was not until I had Emerson that I realized the extent of that love.  As Jesse said when Emerson was a newborn - there should be a different word for the love you feel for your child.  It definitely surpasses what I feel towards anyone, even Jesse.  Or my own mother.  It is a love that, at times, brings tears to my eyes for no reason.  It is a love that makes it okay for me get poop on my thumbnail, spit-up on my new sweater and tangles in my hair.  It is a love that keeps me home to put my baby to bed instead of going to a regional championship basketball game or my husband's awards dinner.  It is a love that makes me hate Sunday nights, cry at the end of extended holidays, and rush out the school door at 3:30 pm.
I think about this sometimes when I look at my high school students.  I hear them complain about their parents or retelling a story where they smarted off to them.  I want to shake them and say, You don't even realize!!  Sometimes I do.  Well, I don't actually shake them, but I do tell them to remember that, one time, many years ago, their parents oohed and ahhed and gushed over them the way I do Emerson.  So go easy on 'em.  (Hopefully someone will say the same to Emerson one day when she's fussing about her mama).

I don't have time for much blogging these days.  If I'm not grading papers or writing lesson plans,  I'm probably either chasing Emerson around the house or collapsing in bed. 
And I wouldn't have it any other way.