In the early 80's, when my two sons were toddlers, I put them in day care when I went

 to work. Like thousands of other working moms, I too was plagued by the articles and news stories about the negative

impact of children growing up in day care. Despite the growing ranks of women in the workplace, society's message still

seemed to be: "Mothers belong at home with their children." Period! End of discussion.

Although I was doing my best to balance wholesome family life with an aggressive career track, I was filled with guilt

nd self doubt. "Am I ruining my kids for life by sending them to day care? Will they resent me? Should I be a stay-at-home

mom?"

On Mother's day 1993, at the traditional eighth-grade Mother's Day tea, the answers to my questions came in a

very unexpected way. To celebrate this day, the children had written poems about their mothers. I sat there,

istening to poems describing cookie-baking, Halloween-costume making, birthday-party-giving, and car-pool-driving

Moms. There was laughter and plenty of tears as we all heard how our teenage children saw us.

Then it was Justin's turn. As he walked to the front of the room, I held my breath, and my stomach did a flip-flop.

How would his poem describe me?

MY MOM

 

How will you be remembered? Only by the memories you leave behind.

Your memories will be as soft and colorful as a young rose petal. A woman wh owned her own business

and became very successful, You will be remembered by the way you fulfilled all your dreams, How you spent t

ime looking after kids while you reached the top---

Two young boys, rowdy as monkeys, You were a great mom, a great wife, a great person----Mom, how on earth

did you do it?

Legends will be told about you, Mom. When I needed help, you were there.

Your shoulder was a place where I could rest my head. What would I do without you?

How would I survive? What I'm trying to tell you is, I love you, Mom.

--------Justin

 

 

In those few glorious moments, as I heard his words, all my doubts and fears about being a working mom

were put to rest. Then and there, I knew, after years of baby-sitters, camps, and day care, that my son did not

 resent me. To the contrary, he let me know that he was proud of me.

When he finished reading his poem, he looked over at me, sitting in the front row of the audience.

He smiled that wide glimmering, silvery smile that only kids with braces are capable of. My first impulse was

to race u p and wrap my arms around him--like you would a small child----yet I resisted. Justin was a thirteen-year

ld young man, and the process of "letting go" had begun. A thumbs-up from one proud mom said it all.

By: Connie Hill

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