Hard Love

Well, lovies. Not only is it Friday, but it’s GOOD Friday. Never a more oxymoronic phrase was made. I wondered what Gypsy Mama would have in store for us for our writing prompt and she did not disappoint.

Each week, we have a blog writing and reading party called Five Minute Fridays. Write without editing on a given prompt for five minutes and slap that post up on for the world to see. Link back and take a peek at how others iterate the prompt. I’ve met some great new friends this way. Encourage you to check it out. (follow on twitter #fiveminutefridays).

When I saw the prompt, my heart lurched: Hard Love. What mother doesn’t go to that place of bearing and caring for her babies? I did. My head went right to the place inside me that tumbles like some kind of overstuffed clothes dryer, full of shoes and costumes, mismatched socks and all the bits and bobs of three people’s disparate personalities.

That’s what hard love is: being a mom who wants to see her children for who they are. Not for who she wants them to be, not for how the world wants them to behave. I want to have the kind of fierce love for these people that will separate out the worries, the fears and the daily crap to see how they are as beings who move in the world.

I guess it’s a letting go, a stepping back. This hard love means I can’t be everything to them. Hard love means arguing with them. Hard love means walking through the messes with them and holding their hands, teaching them to hold their own heads high.

But there’s a harder love. A love that happened with arms stretched wide, a sweaty, bleeding brow and the weight, truly, of millions of desperate souls. A mother’s love is hard; it requires work, and thought and constant decisions. It requires sacrifice. But it was not, is not, the hardest love.