My mother was a saint.
Whenever I have the opportunity to speak of her and my feelings for her as my mother I always mention one thing in particular that I will always cherish. It was a tender moment as a little girl when at the end of each day I would get her all to myself:). Every night when she came into my room to say goodnight she would sit at my bedside, stroke my eye lashes, and sing my favorite lullabies. For those few minutes her smile, her gaze, her heart was all mine. No matter what the day was like, that moment made everything right. It was comfort, security, gentleness, and love all wrapped up in the simple ritual of saying goodnight. As the middle child of seven siblings that time with her was priceless. She was a selfless, hard working woman who seldom took time for herself. She was stretched and pulled and needed by others virtually every minute of every day. I imagine that by the time evening came she must have longed for quiet, calm moments to herself. She could have worthily taken that time. She deserved it. But instead, she gave each of her children the gift of her undivided presence before we fell asleep.
As a mother of five now myself, I understand the challenge it is to make sure each child feels important and loved adequately, every day. I frequently fall asleep thinking about my failings in that regard, making plans for the next day for how I will make it up to child #2, or child #1…whoever it was that was overlooked by my inability to connect with them personally that day. Because of my mother’s example, I do try to make sure that at the very least I give each child a personal goodnight. But some nights I miss it. I don’t do it because I am too exhausted. I give in to my selfish weaknesses. I am not a saint like her. Sadly, and ironically, the one I often feel I am disappointing the most is my middle child.
Joseph. My #3.
Gratefully, this sweet boy forgives easily and loves purely. He can somehow see past my weaknesses as a mother and cares for me anyway. I love that about him.
February was his month. His big month. February was when he turned eight.
One of the few things he requested for his birthday was a picture of his grandparents who live in Logan, a couple hours away. He said he doesn’t get to see them very often and wanted to be able to see them everyday. I love his tenderness.
Another request…a suit to wear to church.
And his biggest request this year? He wanted a birthday party with friends.
Uhhh…nah?
I hate birthday parties with friends. (I’m a horrible, rotten mom.)
But…he’s my #3. And eight is an important number.
(Am I the only one who doesn’t look forward to birthday parties? Maybe because all my children’s birthdays fall within a three month time span?)
Parties=work. I can handle that.
Parties=time. Meh…I’ll give a little up for my buddy.
Parties with eight boys=nutso. This is where I want to draw the line.
But I didn’t draw the line.
And hopefully got myself off the list of meanest moms in the world.
A party for my Joseph = Worth it.
One more awesome event for this guy.
Did I mention he turned eight?
For us, eight is huge. Eight is when we are able to choose for ourselves to follow Jesus and be baptized.
This boy didn’t hesitate. He’s been “following” Jesus Christ since he could talk. He is a rock, this one.
We needed to celebrate him.
When I think of the reasons I wanted to name him “Joseph”, I am amazed at how he is living up to his namesake.
Joseph Smith was strong, loyal, obedient, and a friend to all. Joseph of Egypt was righteous, stalwart, a beacon of strength, and capable. Joseph the carpenter was kind, nurturing, selfless, and loving.
And my son…well, I think he’s one pretty awesome Joseph.
And I am so glad he got to have a moment of his very own.
