I Want to Be “That House”

Photo by Nicole Michalou from Pexels

When I was in my childhood years and all through my adult years, our house was always a welcome and loving solace for friends and relatives that came our way. It has been such a comfort and joy knowing that people can visit us and feel safe, loved, and feel right at home.

I recently came across the following poem written by Raising Teens Today that I thought was an encouraging writing that…hopefully…will embolden the doors of your home and Be “That House.”

I want to be ‘that house”…

The house my kids’ friends

want to come and hang out.

The house where they can

put their feet up,

grab a drink out of the fridge

and feel at home.

The house where they know

they won’t be judged.

The house where they feel

accepted and loved.

The house where,

despite what may be happening

in their lives, at school or at home,

they know that they will always have a

second family or cares.

What kind of house DO YOU have?

Pictures That Speak Volumes #29

Photo Credit: thepirate.com

Photo Credit: thepirate.com

The effects of the World Wart II have not only resulted to the death of millions, but also a long-standing disturbance on the lives of those who survived, particularly children. They were the ones who greatly suffered from the pain and trauma brought by the war. They not only witnessed killings of their families and friends; they also lost their future. They may have survived the war, but the pain will forever be there.

Among those who suffered this effect is Teresa, a young Polish girl who lost her family during the war. While in staying in a concentration camp, she drew an unrecognizable image on the blackboard, which was somewhat chaotic. When ask what her drawing was, she pertained to it as her “home”.

To All The Moms Out There…

 

A Mom and Her Child

A Mom and Her Child

This is for all the mothers who DIDN’T win Mother of the Year last year, all the runners-up and all the wannabes. Including the mothers too tired to enter or too busy to care.

 

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at soccer games on Friday night, instead of watching from cars. So that when their kids asked, “Did you see my goal?” They could say, “Of course, wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s OK honey, Mommy’s here.”

 

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see, and the mothers who took those babies and made them homes.

 

This is for all the mothers of the victims of school shootings, and the mothers of the murderers. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.

 

This is for all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes, and all the mothers who DON’T.

 

What makes a good mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips?

 

Is it the ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?

Or is it heart?

 

Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?

 

Is it the jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, as you bound from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?

 

Is it the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, or a baby dying?

 

I think so.

So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies, and for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn’t.

 

This is for reading “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year. And then reading it again. “Just one more time.”

 

This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2 year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

 

This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

 

This is for all the mothers who bite their lips-sometimes until they bleed-when their 14 year olds dye their hair green. Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won’t stop.

 

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

 

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

 

This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.

 

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children’s graves.

 

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them.

 

This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomachaches, assuring them they’d be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse and hour later asking them to please pick them up, right away.

 

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation, and mature mothers learning to let go.

 

This is for working mothers and stay-at-home mothers, single mothers and married mothers, mothers with money, and mothers without.

 

This is for you all. So hang in there! We love you!