It’s Sunday morning and we are making paper airplanes at the breakfast table. The scraps are everywhere, evidence of imbalances, attempts at evening the folds.
As a child I never learned to make paper airplanes.
I add them to the long, long list of Things I’ve Learned since having boys:
How to catch a backyard frog.
How to teach proper toilet-bowl aim with a floating Fruit Loop.
The perfect spot for launching homemade boats in Fourpole Creek.
The difference between a Bakugan and a Pokemon.
That, as it turns out, burping the alphabet actually is quite funny.
That sometimes we don’t get what we wish for but we get what we need.
Image Credit: Shakopeemn.gov
I never saw myself as the mother of boys. Not really, in the way I’ve heard that other women do. But these boys have brought so much love into my life.
Love and dirt. And armpit farts.
And superhero costumes.
The most important item on that Things I’ve Learned list is this: The shape of motherhood is cut from thin paper, scraps falling like snow to the kitchen floor. It changes over time, with every season, with every lesson.
With each child who guides the scissors with a tiny hand.
And like those kitchen table paper airplanes, the shape of a mother doesn’t have to be perfect to fly.