Sometimes when I'm transported to a far off land within the pages of a book or lost in my own distant thoughts, my children will call my name. Mommy. When they awake in the middle of the night from a scary dream. Or scrape their knee while playing outside. Mommy. Sometimes I look over my shoulder expecting to see my own mother but there is no one there except for me. And then I am snapped back to reality. I am Mommy. They're calling out for me. Even after six years of being a mother that one simple word still takes my breath away.

I find so much joy in raising my children. Regardless of how loud or cranky or just plain ole' bad they behave sometimes, there is always a smile hidden somewhere within it all.

I love to tuck secret notes in their lunchboxes or under their pillows.

I love to open my notebook and find their little doodles among the pages of my notes.

I love getting big sticky popsicle smooches or finding a tiny handprint on a newly cleaned window.

I love sleepy little voices and early morning snuggles.

I love walking into a room and finding the blankets unfolded and made into a secret hideout.

All of those things are gentle reminders that they are here. And that they are mine.

I am so thankful to my amazing mother and both of my grandmothers for helping me appreciate the everyday goodness of being a mother. And for reminding me that these years will be gone in the blink of an eye and there is plenty of time for scrubbing floors. Tomorrow.