"That's not true," he countered energetically. "You did lots of stuff."
"Like what?"
Looking at me as though I had forgotten his birthday, he said, "Don't you remember, Mom? You found Lego Man's hair."
"Lego Man's hair?" I asked, stalling for time. Then it came to me: the fifteen-minute search on hands and knees under his bed and behind his chair and in his sneakers for a yellow, lentil-sized Lego piece. When I found it, Nick rejoiced like some crazed archaeologist celebrating the discovery of the Rosetta stone.
I was still with the Lego excavation when Nick added, "And you made us macaroni and cheese even though you think it's yuck." True. I'm convinced that the orange cheese powder you mix with milk and a pound of butter is a not-too-distant relative of Agent Orange.
"And now you're helping me take a bath, but you don't have to 'cause I'm bigger than yesterday."
At that moment I felt as though I was soaking in a warm bath myself. My image, as reflected in my son's eyes, was decidedly brighter than the frustrated, frowning face I'd seen in the bathroom mirror earlier. Like George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life, I had been given an opportunity to see how different Nick's day would have been had I not taken the time to provide these seemingly random caring gestures.
The problem was I never bothered to put "Find Lego Man's hair" on my daily agenda. I didn't think twice about treating the kids to a side dish I happened to loathe, and I certainly never gave myself credit for keeping Nick company, even though, as he pointed out, he had learned how to swim when he was five. The countless acts of kindness that filled my day and pushed everything else sideways never made it onto my to-do list. Inspired by my little sage to take another look at that list, I tore it up and started over, this time including everything I had actually done that day; then, with a satisfied grin, I crossed off the top twenty to-dos, starting with "Find Lego Man's hair."
In the home movie of our lives as moms, it's the big events -- the birthday parties, trips to Disney World, tickets to the Big Game -- that dominate. But our kids have this amazing ability to pause on a single frame, to zoom in on a moment and to hold it in their hearts for a very long time. The Barney show is remembered not because of the fabulous orchestra seats you waited four hours on line to get but because your six-year-old cracked a joke that made you laugh so hard you cried. The vacation that cost a month's wages fades to black quickly, but the afternoon you put dinner on hold in order to show your eight-year-old how to fly a kite is permanently stored on his hard drive. When we take the time to give ourselves credit for all of these minor miracles, to filter even the most desultory day through our children's more appreciative lens, we experience less guilt, more patience, and certainly a much deserved feeling of pride.
Excerpted from 'The 7 Stages of Motherhood' by Ann Pleshette Murphy. Copyright © 2004 by Ann Pleshette Murphy. Excerpted by permission of Anchor, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
