Touched out, still needed

A day that didn’t pause, even when I needed it to.

My middle daughter, the one I sleep next to on a floor bed, climbs out quietly when she wakes up. She opens the door just a crack and peeks out, checking who’s already up. If the house is still quiet, if my husband and the other kids aren’t in the living room yet, she climbs right back into bed. This morning, the whole house was already awake except for me. The second she showed her face, I heard the running pitter patter of feet.

My youngest jumped on top of me. My oldest ran to a shelf. “This is for you,” he said, placing a card and a paper flower on my chest. “Read it.”

“I haven’t even opened my eyes yet. Give me a minute.”

I moved it to the side so it wouldn’t get crushed while they climbed on top of me. This is the problem with a floor bed. Elbows in my face. Knees in my stomach. My eyes aren’t even open and I’m already touched out. They climb over me trying to get closer, and all I want is a moment. To get up. To use the bathroom. To brush my teeth without someone hanging off of me. But I remind myself, like I always do, this isn’t forever. I can’t imagine them crawling on me like this in five years.

Today is Mother’s Day. My expectations were low. Not because I don’t feel loved. I know they love me. I know what I mean to them. But my husband has never really done holidays. Not birthdays, not milestones. Not in the twelve years we’ve been together. So when my son handed me a card his teacher had him make at school, I knew this was probably it.

So I rallied. I got everyone dressed by 7:30 and we headed out to breakfast, trying to beat the Mother’s Day rush. We did. It didn’t really matter. My kids couldn’t sit still. They were louder than every other table in the place. We barely made it through eggs and potatoes before I gave up and drank my coffee as fast as I could. Then we went to the playground. The car ride there was a chorus of demands. Someone needed a snack. Someone wanted a different song. Someone was crying. It was loud enough to give me a headache.

And I know this sounds like complaining. I can hear it as I write it. But I think what I’m trying to say is this. Even on Mother’s Day, the being a mother part doesn’t stop. It doesn’t soften. It doesn’t pause so you can catch your breath.

It can be overwhelming. It can be exhausting. It can feel like too much, even on the day that’s supposed to celebrate it. And still. They woke up and ran to me first. They made me something with their hands. They climbed on me like I was the safest place they knew. So maybe that’s it. Not the quiet breakfast. Not the thoughtful plan. Just this loud, chaotic, too-close version of love. The kind that leaves you touched out and needed all at once.