My kids leave soggy, wet towels on the floor in their room after a shower.
My kids ignore me for hours, and choose the exact minute I pick up the phone to desperately need all of my attention.
My kids leave a trail of crumbs behind them everywhere they go.
My kids eat way too many pancakes, covered in way too much syrup.
My kids (especially that middle one) track mud obliviously through my just-mopped kitchen.
My kids climb trees and scrape their knees. And then proceed to use no less than 19 bandaids to make it all better.
My kids fight and tease each other.
My kids get their feelings hurt by other kids at school.
My kids somehow always find and consume my stash of the good (and expensive) protein bars.
My kids jump on the trampoline until they are breathless. Then they get up and do it again.
My kids ride bikes in the wintertime with red cheeks and knitted caps.
My kids sometimes make their beds.
My kids love to read.
My kids cannot fall asleep unless they hug and kiss me goodnight.
My kids run hard, play hard, and laugh hard.
My kids do a lot. Some of it gets on my nerves.
My kids have full bellies and rich lives.
Today I was reminded of this as I sat once again in the waiting room at Children's Hospital where McKay goes twice a year for his asthma check up. I sat next to a mama who held a toddler on her lap. The beautiful boy was bald, though not like a newborn - from chemo. She had bags under her eyes and wore her tremendous worry on her sleeve like a thousand-pound anvil. She smiled and thanked me when I handed her something she dropped. My heart ached for this scared little mama and her sick baby. I felt guilty, as I looked over at my robust, healthy boy - totally absorbed in his book and oblivious to the sorrows surrounding us.
Today, once again, my heart is full of gratitude for all the many things my kids can do.
And it aches terribly for the mamas whose kids cannot.